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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Painted  Shadows 


Painted   Shadows 


BY 

RICHARD    LE   GALLIENNE 

Author  of  ^^Love-Letters  of  the  King" 


\ 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND    COMPANr 

1904 


Copyright,  jgoj. 
By  The  Metropolitan   Magazine  Company. 

Copyright,  igoi,  igoj,  1904, 
By  Ess  Ess  Publishing  Company. 

Copyright,  igo4. 
By  The  Butterick  Publishing  Co.  (Limited). 

Copyright,  igo4. 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 


jiU  rights  reserved 
Published  October,  190+ 


THE     UNIVERSITY     PRESS 
CAM  IJRIDGE,    U.  S.  A. 


To  Agnes 


Contents 


Page 

The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia 3 

The  Shadow  of  the  Rose 41 

Poet,  Take  Thy  Lute! 59 

The  Wandering  Home 97 

The  First  Church  of  the  Restoration,  Ameri- 
can    123 

Beauty's  Portmanteau i4S 

Old  Silver 179 

Fragoletta 225 

The  Woman  in  Possession 241 

Dear  Dead  Women 273 

The  Household  Gods 289 

The  Two  Ghosts 313 


THE  YOUTH  OF  LADY 
CONSTANTIA 


THE  YOUTH  OF  LADY 
CONSTANTIA 

LADY  CONSTANTIA  sat  looking  out  at 
the  summer  morning  from  the  windows  of 
her  little  book-filled  bower.  The  morning 
was  terribly  bright  and  dewy  —  and  O  the  bloom 
and  the  abundance  of  the  world  !  The  cruel  ex- 
uberance of  crowding  leaves,  the  indolent  mag- 
nificence of  the  rose !  How  fresh,  how  strong, 
how  brimming  with  sap  and  fire  and  the  urgent 
joy  and  glory  of  the  young  year ! 

Terrible  —  cruel  —  yes!  for  there  was  that  in 
all  this  sun-filled  cup  of  fragrant  life  that  almost 
broke  her  heart,  and  brought  her  head  down  upon 
the  sill  of  the  open  window,  and  shook  with  sobs 
her  beautiful  shoulders.  Her  fine  hair,  still  thick 
and  still  gold,  lay  framed  in  the  window,  a  soft 
treasure  of  silken  light,  and  the  climbing  yellow 
roses  filled  it  with  their  scent  and  their  dew. 

Presently  she  roused  herself  with  an  impatient 
gesture,  and  raising  her  face,  glittering  with 
tears  looked  out  defiantly  on  the  young,  young 
world. 


4  Painted  Shadows 

"O  my  God,"  she  exclaimed,  striking  her 
clenched  hand  on  the  window-ledge,  "  how  cruel, 
how  unjust  it  is  !  " 

Something  was  on  the  point  of  passing  away 
from  Lady  Constantia  for  which  all  her  wealth,  all 
her  social  distinction  and  popularity,  all  the  fair 
luxury  of  her  existence,  were  no  compensation. 
In  that  old  battle  of  Beauty  against  Time,  at  last, 
at  last,  after  a  fight  and  a  succession  of  victories 
rarely  paralleled  in  the  annals  of  fair  women,  she 
was  on  the  point  of  losing.  As  yet  no  one  knew 
of  it  but  herself.  Her  maid  indeed  hardly  sus- 
pected it  —  for  Mariette  had  as  proud  a  faith  in 
her  mistress's  beauty  as  a  squire  in  the  valour  of 
his  knight.  And  surely  that  was  a  triumph ;  for, 
hard  as  it  may  be  for  a  man  to  be  a  hero  to  his 
valet,  the  difficulty  is  nothing  in  comparison  with 
being  a  beauty  to  one's  maid.  Indeed,  Lady  Con- 
stantia Greville's  perennial  youth  had  for  years 
been  one  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  fashionable 
world.  Of  course,  everyone  knew  that  she  had 
recently  become  a  grandmother  —  O  the  ingrati- 
tude of  one's  daughters  !  —  but,  looking  at  her,  one 
felt  that,  if  indeed  it  was  a  matter  of  genealogical 
statistics,  it  was  not,  seriously  speaking,  a  matter 
of  fact.  It  reflected  rather  on  the  precocity  of  the 
daughter  than  upon  the  age  of  the  mother.  One 
of  the  many  disadvantages   of  belonging  to  the 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia        5 

upper  classes  is  the  fact  that  your  age  cannot  be 
kept  a  secret.  The  day  of  your  birth  is  entered  in 
the  stud-book  of  Burke  for  all  eyes  to  read,  though 
one  has  heard  of  large  sums  having  been  offered 
for  merciful  misprints.  Everyone  knew  that  Lady 
Constantia  Greville  was  forty-five,  though  no  one 
looking  at  her  could  possibly  believe  it.  Without 
the  evidence  of  Burke  and  a  grandson,  no  one 
would  have  dreamed  of  giving  her  more  than 
twenty-nine.  And,  so  long  as  she  still  possessed 
the  reality  of  youth.  Lady  Constantia  was  sensible 
enough  to  care  nothing  for  the  merely  arbitrary 
registration  of  her  years.  But  at  last  the  reality 
was  to  be  hers  no  more.  The  silken  skin  was  on 
the  point  of  failing  her,  and  the  clear  girl's  eyes 
were  soon  to  grow  a  little  dim. 

The  glory  of  her  glorious  womanhood  was 
standing  on  the  last-lighted  frontier  of  the  shadow. 
Even  yet  it  was  summer  with  her — but  a  step  and 
it  would  be  the  autumn  woods,  the  brilliant  autumn 
tints  !  Her  heart  sank,  sank,  as  she  thought  of  it. 
The  long  autumn,  and  then  —  "  the  winter  sun- 
shine." She  who  had  so  long  been  splendid  spring 
and  triumphant  summer  —  to  be  complimented  on 
.  the  charm  and  grace  of  her  passing  away:  the 
autumn  landscape  of  a  beautiful  woman,  the  gentle 
lovehness  of  the  dying  year  !  In  such  phrases  her 
own  wit  mocked  at  her  own  despair.     The  autumn 


6  Painted  Shadows 

tints!  O  ghastly  thought  —  was  she  to  be  com- 
pelled at  last  —  she  whose  beauty  had  been  the  very 
health  of  flowers,  the  sweet  blood  of  wholesome 
strength  and  country  air  and  fragrant  sleep  —  was 
she  to  give  herself  at  last  into  the  hands  of  the 
embalmers :  the  embalmers  of  beauty  with  their 
horrible  unguents  and  spices  and  all  the  foul  skill 
which  keeps  the  dead  alive,  become  the  painted 
phantom  of  herself,  and  be  the  astonishing  copy  of 
her  own  girlhood? 

Her  whole  nature  revolted  at  the  thought.  And 
yet  —  the  alternative  :  "  to  grow  old  gracefully,"  to 
be  one's  daughter's  only  rival,  some  day  to  be  called 
"  sixty  years — young  "  —  ugh  !  — to  hear  that  youth 
is  a  matter  of  temperament  and  that  years  don't 
count,  to  be  heartily  assured  that  one  looks  younger 
than  ever :  O  God,  lace  caps  and  silver  hair,  and 
**  Ah  !  you  will  never  be  as  beautiful  as  your  mother 
was  at  your  age."     O  God  !  God  !  God  ! 

And  Lady  Constantia  nearly  bruised  her  hand 
with  the  force  with  which  she  emphasised  that 
tragic  rebellion  with  which  sooner  or  later  a  beauti- 
ful woman  must  face  the  stern  fact  that  she  is  soon 
—  to  cease  to  be  a  woman.  Grandmothers  are 
angels — they  are  not  women.  Constantia  had 
been  so  superbly,  so  laughingly  a  woman,  and  she 
was  as  yet  conscious  of  no  essential  failure  in  her 
bountiful  womanhood.     Her  health  was  still  bound- 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia        7 

ing  as  a  child's,  and  her  figure  was  literally  that  of 
a  girl.  No  one  as  yet,  I  said,  saw  what  was  coming. 
But  she  had  looked  in  her  mirror  that  morning  and 
seen  —  no,  it  was  nothing  so  obvious  as  a  wrinkle, 
or  any  superficial  failure  of  her  skin.  It  was  rather 
a  fleeting  weariness  of  tint,  a  slight  deadness  or 
opacity  of  tone,  as  if  some  interior  light  which 
illumined  the  beautiful  ivory  lamp  of  the  hly  was 
sinking  at  its  centre.  It  was  not,  after  all,  the 
beautiful  skin  itself  that  was  failing  her,  but  some 
mysterious  radiance  that  was  retreating  from  the 
surface.  It  was  not  a  matter  for  the  dermatologist. 
No  physical  arts  were  going  to  avail  her.  Could 
it  be  merely  the  settling  down  of  the  fires  of  life? 
Once  they  were  all  fairy  flame  in  the  cheek,  but 
henceforward  they  were  to  burn  with  a  steady,  un- 
radiating  glow.  O  God  —  could  it  be  because  she 
was  forty-five ! 

Forty-five !  .  .  .  yet,  after  all,  as  she  looked 
round  her  shelves  and  was  reminded  of  the  beau- 
tiful women  of  antiquity  who  had  so  romantically 
defied  time  that  they  had  hardly  begun  to  love  at 
forty-five,  she  took  heart. 

After  all,  there  was  somewhere  in  the  world  the 
secret  of  imperishability — if  only  one  could  find 
it.  These  roses  at  her  window  need  never  fade  — 
if  only  one  knew  that  secret.  Ah !  where  was  it 
hidden?     In  what  fairy  cave,   in  what  dread   in- 


8  Painted  Shadows 

accessible  mountains  of  the  moon,  guarded  by 
dragons  and  gryphons  and  one-eyed  giants,  did 
the  simple  crystal  of  the  immortal  spring  bubble 
up  like  diamond  out  of  the  earth? 

She  turned  over  her  old  folios,  with  pages  yel- 
low as  daffodils,  and  she  read  how  a  certain  beau- 
tiful lady  of  Crete  had  prolonged  her  youth  till  the 
age  of  a  hundred  and  seventy-three,  by  living  on 
nothing  but  daisy  roots,  and  how  another  beautiful 
lady  of  Mitylene  had  lived  even  longer  by  drinking 
only  the  water  of  a  certain  well,  and  eating  nothing 
but  the  livers  of  serpents  ;  she  read  of  still  another 
beautiful  lady  who  suddenly,  when  she  was  fifty 
years  old,  had  by  chance  gathered  a  certain  wild 
flower,  and  pressing  it  to  her  nostrils  had  been  so 
marvellously  refreshed  by  its  fragrance  that,  when 
she  ceased  from  smelling  it,  she  had  suddenly  be- 
come a  young  girl.  She  read  how  a  Princess  of 
Mesopotamia  had  retained  her  beauty  till  she  was 
past  ninety  by  bathing  each  morning  in  the  milk 
of  unicorns,  and  had  suddenly  grown  old  and  died 
because  no  reward  she  could  offer  could  procure  for 
her  another  pint  of  unicorn's  milk  in  the  wide  world. 

She  read  that  the  complexion  was  much  bene- 
fited by  one's  listening  to  the  lark  as  it  rose  from 
its  nest  in  the  dawn,  and  that  the  contemplation  of 
certain  stars,  particularly  in  certain  months  of  the 
year,  gave  the  eyes  a  marvellous  brightness. 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia        9 

The  juice  of  blackberries  applied  under  certain 
aspects  of  the  moon  made  the  feet  small,  and 
much  handling  of  lilies  made  the  fingers  white 
and  tapering;  and  to  hear  the  first  nightingale 
of  the  year  break  its  shell  had  a  wonderful  effect 
upon  the  voice. 

They  were  absurd  old  books,  of  course  —  Con- 
stantia said;  and  yet  —  what  if  there  should  be 
some  method  in  all  their  picturesque  madness? 
The  most  potent  science  of  the  modern  world  was 
but  a  fulfilment  of  these  magnificently  nonsensical 
dreams  of  astrologers  and  alchemists  and  herb- 
alists. Science  indeed  had  long  since  ceased  to 
be  common-sense,  and  entered  the  realms  of  the 
supernatural.  With  wireless  telegraphy  a  mere 
matter  of  business  —  so  reliable  a  mode  of  com- 
munication that  lovers  can  sigh  instantaneously  to 
each  other  around  the  globe;  with  witchcraft, 
otherwise  hypnotism,  one  of  the  recognised  methods 
of  medicine;  with  surgery  an  opium-eater's  dream, 
and  a  dangerous  operation  a  dolce  far  ftieute  way 
of  spending  a  fortnight  —  surely  the  elixir  of  life 
became  a  long-expected,  stupidly  delayed  com- 
monplace of  science. 

Her  beauty  had  already  been  prolonged  so  re- 
markably beyond  the  common  span  of  beautiful 
faces  that  its  endurance  alone  was  almost  enough 
to  suggest  to  her  that  she  was  one  of  those    in 


lo  Painted  Shadows 

secret,  if  unconscious,  communication  with  those 
immortal  forces  that  keep  the  world  young  for- 
ever. If  there  were  forces  that  could  indolently 
furnish  the  meadows  with  their  freshness,  spring 
after  spring,  and  with  a  mere  turn  of  the  hand 
fill  the  sky  with  stars  and  the  singing  of  birds, 
surely  forces  that  could  do  so  much  could  do  the 
little  thing  Constantia  asked,  arrest  those  merely 
parochial  activities  of  decay  threatening  her  beauty 
—  as  some  citizen  maggot  dares  to  take  possession 
of  the  chateau  of  the  rose  —  and  lay  an  authorita- 
tive finger  even  upon  death. 

Thus  the  miracle  of  her  beauty  set  Lady  Con- 
stantia pondering  on  possible  miracles  of  its  preser- 
vation, and  she  read  and  listened  and  watched  here 
and  there,  and  paid  heed  even  to  the  advertise- 
ments of  those  quacks  who  batten,  as  we  have  just 
said,  on  the  decay  of  the  rose.  That  it  was  a 
weakness  in  her  she  would  have  been  the  first  to 
acknowledge  —  with  shame;  but  this  weakness  at 
least  she  never  stooped  to :  she  never  gave  herself 
into  the  hands  of  the  embalmers.  She  permitted 
no  artists  of  the  surface  to  approach  her  face. 
Her  beauty  was,  so  to  say,  merely  the  registration 
of  some  central  sweetness  and  health  and  wonder 
in  the  world.  If  her  face  was  lovely,  it  was  be- 
cause it  was  fed  by  deep  Artesian  wells  of  beauty, 
brimming  down   in   the    silence   and    the  strength 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia       i  i 

and  the  sweetness  at  the  heart  of  the  world.  If  the 
beauty-making  root  was  dead,  would  she  —  could 
she  —  be  so  cheaply  dishonest  as  to  furbish  up  the 
dying  flower? 

Her  beauty  was  too  strong  for  that.  Her  beauty 
had  been  a  reality  too  long  for  her  to  care  to  turn 
its  decay  into  an  imposture. 

No!  —  but  if  ...  if  only  the  root  of  the  rose 
might  be  miraculously  quickened,  so  that  the  slim 
stems  grew  soft  with  their  very  strength  of  sun  and 
dew,  and  put  out  from  their  sides  little  green  wings, 
from  sheer  might  of  their  freshness  ,  .    . 

If  only  some  power  profoundly  vital  as  a  field 
of  corn  would  only  lay  its  hand  upon  the  root  of 
the  rose  that  was  Constantia  Greville !  And  the 
mere  fact  of  her  long-enduring  beauty,  as  I  have 
said,  made  her  confident  that  such  hidden  powers 
must  be. 

It  was  this  mood  of  a  mind  in  no  way  super- 
stitious or  hysterical  that  caused  her  to  pay  atten- 
tion to  the  stories  that  came  to  her,  on  she  could 
hardly  say  what  wings  of  hearsay,  about  a  certain 
Dr.  Sibley,  whom  everybody  laughed  at,  and,  so 
far  as  she  knew,  no  one  patronised,  who  claimed 
to  have  discovered  some  of  the  secrets  of  youth. 
Dr.  Sibley  appeared  to  despise  the  methods  of  the 
charlatan ;  at  all  events,  he  made  no  use  of  them, 
and  his  name  had  chanced  to  get  into  the  papers 


I  2  Painted  Shadows 

as  accidentally  as  if  he  had  merely  set  a  bone  with 
unaccustomed  skill. 

There  was,  however,  that  indefinably  informing 
quality  in  the  rumour  that  made  I^ady  Greville 
determined  to  visit  him  in  some  sooty  address  oft 
the  Edgeware  Road.  Much  as  her  beauty  was 
to  others,  it  was  far  more  to  herself,  and  there  was 
nothing  she  would  not  do,  however  silly  it  might 
seem  to  the  world,  to  keep  it  alive  —  that  is, 
really  alive. 

At  last  she  found  herself  in  the  horrible  little 
respectable  street  off  the  Edgeware  Road.  She 
had  dressed  herself  in  her  plainest  clothes,  and 
had  ridden  in  an  omnibus,  to  avoid  the  chance 
of  recognition.  Shrinking  with  shame,  she  at 
length  came  to  the  dim  but  not  obtrusively  sordid 
door.  With  a  gasp  she  rang  the  bell;  and  next 
she  was  seated  in  a  sepulchral  front  parlour,  dingily 
neat — mahogany,  a  marble  mantelpiece,  and  a 
black  marble  clock  ticking  solemnly  as  if  it  were 
keeping  time  in  a  tomb.  A  room  less  suggestive 
of  "occult"  mysteries  could  hardly  have  been  con- 
ceived. Poor  Lady  Constantia  had  half  expected 
crocodiles  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  snakes  in 
bottles,  and  bundles  of  dried  herbs,  and  Dr.  Sibley 
she  had  figured,  half  laughingly  to  herself,  as  a 
preposterous  quack  wearing  a  dressing-gown  em- 
broidered with  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac. 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia       1 3 

But  as  the  room  agreeably  surprised  her,  so 
did  the  doctor.  He  was  a  short,  business-like 
man,  with  a  rather  red  nose  and  a  Welsh  accent. 
His  clothes  and  manner  were  both  good,  and 
Lady  Constantia,  with  an  inward  sigh  of  thanks- 
giving, saw  that  she  had  to  deal  with  something 
like  a  gentleman. 

He  received  her  as  any  other  doctor  might 
have  done,  and  tactfully  helped  her  out  with  her 
first  preliminary  explanation.  After  what  she  had 
expected,  he  was  most  attractively  taciturn.  Neither 
did  he  launch  out  into  a  flood  of  charlatan  exposi- 
tion, nor,  on  the  other  hand,  did  he  laboriously  ex- 
plain that  he  was  no  quack.  He  said  nothing 
whatever  about  psychic  phenomena  or  astral 
planes.  In  fact,  beyond  a  few  of  the  usual  medi- 
cal commonplaces,  he  said  hardly  anything  at  all. 
He  asked  Lady  Constantia  a  few  questions  such 
as  he  might  have  asked  if  she  had  sought  his 
advice  for  spme  customary  ill  of  the  body :  Were 
her  father  and  mother  living?  How  many  children 
was  she  the  mother  of?  Appetite?  Exercise? 
Sleep  well  ?  —  and  so  on. 

Then  he  looked  at  her  quietly  for  a  while, 
pondering.  Suddenly  he  said,  as  simply  as 
though  he  had  been  prescribing  iron  and  quinine : 

"  Yes !  I  can  make  you  young  again  ..." 

Lady  Constantia  began  to  murmur  her  thanks. 


14  Painted  Shadows 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  went  on ;  "  I  can  make 
you  young  again,  as  young  as  you  were  at  twenty- 
five  ...  for  ten  years  ..." 

Lady  Constantia  gasped. 

"  Listen  ...  for  ten  years  .  .  .  but,  and  now 
listen  again,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  on  the  very 
last  hour  of  the  ten  years,  you  will  suddenly  be- 
come absolutely  old,  older  than  you  could  ever 
have  become  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events. 
From  twenty-five  you  will  shrink  to  eighty  in  a 
moment.  It  is  for  you  to  consider  whether  you 
will  grow  gradually  towards  fifty-five,  or  whether 
you  will  choose  to  be  twenty-five  years  old  for  ten 
more  years  and  then  suddenly  be  eighty.  If  I 
were  you,  madam,"  added  the  doctor,  from  whom 
Lady  Constantia  had  concealed  her  rank,  "  I  would 
remain  as  you  are.  Even  when  you  are  fifty-five 
you  will  look  very  little  older  than  you  do  now." 

Lady  Constantia  thought  a  long  while.  Presently 
she  turned  to  the  doctor. 

"  May  I  ask  about  your  methods?  " 

"  I  have  no  methods." 

"  No  methods !  " 

"  None  that  you  will  know  of." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"I  mean  that,  if  you  agree  to  employ  my  ser- 
vices, you  and  I  need  never  meet  again.  In  a 
month's  time  from  now  your  beauty  will  have  come 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia       i  5 

back  to  you  ;  in  a  month's  time  you  will  be  a  girl 
again." 

"  But  how  do  I  know  that  this  is  true?  " 

"  I  can  give  no  guarantees  beyond  my  promise." 

"  And  your  fee?  " 

"One  thousand  pounds  a  year — till  the  end  of 
the  ten  years." 

Lady  Constantia  laughed  scornfully,  but  the 
doctor's  manner  was  so  quiet  and  simple  that  she 
was  convinced  in  spite  of  herself.  After  all,  what 
were  ten  thousand  pounds  in  exchange  for  ten 
years  of  her  lost  beauty ;  and  if  the  doctor  was  a 
quack,  well  —  she  was  rich.  So  presently  she 
turned  again  to  the  doctor. 

"  I  agree,"  she  said. 

"  But  remember  !  "  said  he,  "  the  ten  years  will 
end  .  .  .  and  what  then?  " 

"  I  will  pay  that  price,  too,"  said  Lady  Con- 
stantia.    Then  she  added,  "  Shall  I  pay  you  now?  " 

"  Yes !  please,"  said  the  doctor,  as  quietly  as 
though  he  had  said,  "  A  guinea,  please." 

And  Lady  Constantia,  who  had  come  armed 
for  some  such  contingency,  paid  him  out  ten 
hundred-pound  notes.  The  doctor  made  out  a 
formal  receipt,  and  as  he  handed  it  to  her,  added : 
"A  month  from  to-day!  Thank  you.  Good 
afternoon." 

And  Lady  Constantia  was  once  more  in  the  dim 


1 6  Painted  Shadows 

little  street.  She  turned  a  moment  to  look  at  the 
insignificant  house.  Could  it  be  true?  Surely 
she  must  have  been  dreaming ! 

At  the  beginning  of  the  ninth  year  Lady  Con- 
stantia  found  herself  face  to  face  with  a  terrible 
ordeal,  a  tragic  temptation  that  had  never  entered 
into  her  plan  of  life.  Hers  had  always  been  a 
strange  heart,  a  kind  heart  and  an  affectionate,  but 
it  had  always  seemed  incapable  of  a  real  passion. 
She  had  loved  her  husband  in  a  sisterly  way,  and 
his  death  had  caused  her  genuine  regret;  but 
neither  he  nor  she  had  ever  mistaken  their  mar- 
riage for  a  romance. 

Suddenly,  however,  at  the  age  of  fifty-four  she 
was  to  be  stricken  by  the  veritable  arrow  tipped 
with  honey  and  tears,  the  true  and  terrible  love  of 
the  poets. 

Adjoining  her  country  home,  a  certain  beautiful 
young  man  had  recently  come  into  his  lordship. 
He  was  still  a  mere  boy,  scarcely  twenty-two,  and 
of  a  singular  grace  of  nature ;  manly  indeed,  and 
yet  dreamy ;  already  a  soldier  browned  with  the 
sun  that  shines  on  English  battles  in  far  un- 
English  lands  ;  but,  as  with  a  soldier-poet  ancestor 
of  his,  his  eyes  were  somewhat  subject  to  the  in- 
fluence of  the  stars. 

Lady  Constantia  had  known  him  as  a  mere  baby, 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia       17 

—  for  was  he  not  ten  years  younger  than  her  own 
daughter,  who  had  long  since  come  to  look  older 
than  her  supernatural  mother  ?  —  and  he  had  grown 
up  in  full  possession  of  the  legend  of  Lady  Con- 
stantia's  eternal  youth;  and,  when  he  was  old 
enough  to  think  of  such  matters,  the  poet  in  him 
had  been  fascinated  by  its  romance.  It  had  sent 
him  dreaming  of  Helen  of  Troy,  of  Iseult,  of  Cleo- 
patra, and,  often  as  he  looked  at  her,  while  yet  a 
bookish  dream-filled  boy,  he  had  wondered  if  she 
would  be  young  still  when  he  had  grown  up,  so 
young  that  she  would  not  laugh  at  him  —  if  he 
should  still  love  her.  And,  year  by  year,  Mortimer 
Fanton  had  grown  more  and  more  to  be  a  man  ; 
he  had,  it  might  almost  have  seemed,  raced  to  be 
a  man  —  that  he  might  catch  up  to  Lady  Con- 
stantia before  she  ceased  to  be  a  girl.  And,  year 
by  year,  there  was  no  change  in  that  unfading  face. 
Year  by  year  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  the 
beauties  of  this  and  that  season  in  bitter  rotation, 
but  the  beauty  of  Constantia  Greville  laughed  at 
all  the  clocks  of  time. 

By  the  time  that  Constantia  Greville  was  fifty- 
four  Mortimer  Fanton  had  qualified  to  look  her 
slightly  elder  brother  —  a  boy  still,  but  quite  old 
and  tanned  enough,  and  with  a  moustache  firmly 
enough  established,  to  play  the  protecting  member 
of  the  family,  if  need  be.     Seeing  the  two  together, 

2 


1 8  Painted  Shadows 

unprejudiced  by  previous  information,  you  would 
have  thought  it  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
that  two  such  beautiful  young  people  should  fall  in 
love  with  each  other.  For  whatever  the  miraculous 
art  may  have  been  which  had  given  Lady  Con- 
stantia  her  youth,  it  was,  at  all  events,  an  art  that 
concealed  itself.  There  was  no  smallest  suggestion 
of  the  tour-de-force ;  and  her  youth  was  so  real  and 
fresh  that  to  say  she  was  fifty-four  seemed  as  silly 
as  saying  the  like  of  a  newly  opened  flower.  All 
her  technical  "  age "  proved  was  the  slander  of 
chronology. 

And  the  older  she  grew  —  in  Burke,  but  no- 
where else  —  the  more  Mortimer  Fanton  loved  her. 
He  loved  her  first,  because  she  was  the  most 
beautiful  woman  he  had  ever  seen,  and  next  be- 
cause she  appealed  to  that  romantic  sense  in  him, 
which,  as  a  rule,  English  girls  but  imperfectly 
satisfy.  Her  beauty,  like  that  of  the  beautiful 
ladies  of  old  time,  was  already  touched  with  the 
romance  of  immortality.  She  was  to  him  like  one 
of  Villon's  "  dead  ladies  "  whom  it  had  been  his 
strange  fortune  to  meet  in  a  meadow  of  Paradise. 
Her  age,  so  called,  had  not  made  her  old,  but  only 
immortal.  When  sometimes  he  caught  sight  of 
her  at  a  distance  walking  in  her  park,  he  said  to  him- 
self:  "To  think  that  I  have  seen  Queen  Mary!  " 

Though    the  dawn  still   bloomed  in  her  cheek, 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia       19 

over  her  head  there  hung  already  the  crescent 
moon  of  legend.  Should  he  meet  Queen  Guinevere 
in  a  green  glade  some  morning,  would  he  give  a 
thought  to  her  age?  Would  he  not  rather  love 
her  the  more  because  she  was  still  a  wild  rose 
after  a  thousand  years? 

All  men  think  they  love  beauty,  and  their  matri- 
monial failures  usually  represent  youthful  aesthetic 
ideals  which  they  have  outgrown.  Their  wives 
too  often  are  like  pictures  by  popular  artists  which 
appealed  to  them  as  boys,  and  which  in  a  rash 
moment  of  inexperienced  admiration  they  hung 
upon  their  walls  —  pictures  which  they  have  n't  the 
heart  or  the  opportunity  to  take  down. 

But  Mortimer  Fanton  really  loved  beauty.  As 
a  boy,  reading  his  dreamy  books,  he  had  thought 
of  woman  as  the  beautiful  princess  riding  on  a 
white  palfrey  in  the  middle  of  the  dark  wood 
of  the  world,  so  beautiful  that  a  man  would  will- 
ingly die  to  look  once  at  her  face  and  kiss  her 
hand ;  but  beautiful,  always  beautiful,  and  nothing 
more  —  what  more  could  there  be?  He  had  never 
stopped  to  think  how  she  would  talk,  what  she 
would  say  or  do,  when  she  stepped  down  from  her 
palfrey,  and  her  women  met  her  at  the  iron  door 
of  the  castle  on  the  edge  of  the  forest.  To  him 
she  was  a  white  flower  journeying  upon  a  white 
palfrey ;   she  was  woman,  the  white  flower  of  the 


20  Painted  Shadows 

world ;  and  he  dreamed  of  a  man  as  a  being 
worthy  to  win  and  strong  to  guard  that  white 
flower. 

If  you  see  a  lady  riding  through  the  woods, 
like  a  holy  candle  borne  with  a  great  hush  of  holi- 
ness down  the  glades,  how  long  do  you  wait  till 
you  offer  her  your  heart  and  your  lance  and  your 
life?  Do  you  wonder:  Mow,  and  How,  and  How? 
Do  you  wonder  anything  at  all,  except:  O  God, 
is  it  possible  she  will  take  me  for  her  servant?  Is 
it  possible  that  some  day  she  will  give  me  the 
deeps  of  her  eyes  ? 

Other  men  may  ask  more  —  O  surely  let  us  say 
less  than  this  —  but  Mortimer  Fanton  •  .  .  well, 
he  knew  of  nothing  more  to  ask.  When  he  was 
still  a  child  he  had  seen  the  most  beautiful  lady  in 
the  world ;  he  had  been  told  she  lived  only  a  few 
meadows  away  —  he  measured  the  distance  by 
acres  of  cowslips;  he  had  played  truant  that 
he  might  be  hidden  in  the  fern  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  face  passing  like  a  dove  through  the  trees; 
and  now  that  he  had  become  a  man,  and  had  been 
here  and  there  and  used  his  eyes  about  the  world, 
that  face  of  his  boyhood  was  still  the  only  face 
among  women  for  him.  Still  he  would  watch  her 
face  going  up  the  wood  like  a  spray  of  hawthorn 
carried  in  the  hand,  still  her  beauty  was  to  him 
the  supreme  prize  of  all  the  prizes  of  the  world. 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia      21 

And  the  day  came  when  he  dared  to  tell  her  of 
all  this,  and  when  she  hardly  dared  to  listen. 

To  her  his  love  was  more  wonderful  and  more 
to  be  desired  than  he,  or  anyone  but  a  woman, 
could  dream  of.  She  was  an  old,  old  woman,  and 
here  was  a  boy  bringing  her  so  beautiful  a  love. 
How  few  out  of  all  the  women  of  time  had  been 
made  such  an  offering !  And  the  victory  was  the 
more  real  because  she  knew  that  Mortimer's  love 
for  her  was  not  founded  on  a  mere  fancy.  The 
beauty  he  worshipped,  she  said  proudly  to  herself, 
as  she  looked  in  her  mirror,  was  real  beauty. 
Though  its  time  was  growing  so  short,  though  it 
had  endured  so  many  years,  it  was  still  the  un- 
tricked  beauty  of  a  girl.  It  was  by  no  cheap 
illusions  of  the  boudoir  that  she  had  won  Morti- 
mer's love.  He  might  kiss  her  cheek,  but  he 
would  only  kiss  it  a  deeper  pink,  and  there  was 
nothing  of  all  her  beauty  that  could  do  other  than 
welcome  the  challenge  of  his  eyes. 

Yes !  for  the  wonderful  love  he  was  giving  her 
—  she  would  be  giving  him  in  exchange  no  counter- 
feit. She  could  give  in  exchange  a  woman  no  less 
beautiful  than  his  love.  She,  a  woman  of  fifty- 
four,  dare  draw  herself  up  and  say:  "Am  I  not 
beautiful,  am  I  not  as  young  as  any  girl?"  Ah, 
the  beauty;    but  ah,  the  terror  of  the  temptation  ! 

Dare  she  tell  him  that  this  beauty  had  scarcely 


22  Painted  Shadows 

two  years  to  live?  .  .  .  and  then  she  covered  her 
lovely  face  with  her  hands.  Would  he  love  her 
still  ...  if  he  knew?  Would  he  pay  half  the  ter- 
rible price  of  the  beauty  he  loved?  How  could 
she  run  the  fearful  hazard  of  confession?  .  .  . 

For  days  she  had  been  pondering  it  all.  Of 
course,  when  he  had  spoken,  she  had  put  his  love 
away,  gently,  laughingly,  motherly  .  .  .  but  he  had 
not  missed  a  certain  wild  something  in  her  eyes 
which  he  could  not  know  for  gratitude,  and  he  had 
not  altogether  despaired. 

By  chance  one  morning  he  met  her  near  a  grove 
of  hawthorn  just  then  in  fragrant  flower.  Her  eyes 
were  so  full  of  the  dream  of  him  at  the  moment 
that  she  could  not  help  his  seeing ;  and  he  dared 
to  take  her  hand  and  beg  her  to  sit  down  awhile 
and  let  him  look  in  her  face. 

She  sat  down,  like  any  country  maid,  in  the 
thick  grass,  and  he  held  her  hand  gently,  and 
looked  at  her,  as  if  her  face  was  a  vision  that 
would  only  last  so  long  as  he  kept  his  eyes 
upon  it. 

"  Well?  "  he  said  after  a  while. 

"  Mortimer,  it  cannot  be." 

There  was  silence  again  for  a  moment. 

"  But  it  shall  be,"  said  Mortimer,  guiding  his 
speech  by  the  lovely  star-chart  of  her  face.  "  It 
shall  be." 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia      23 

"Listen,"  said  Constantia;  "suppose  my  beauty 
were  suddenly  to  perish — suppose  it  should  hap- 
pen that  in  a  year,  say  two  years'  time,  I  should 
suddenly  wrinkle  up,  and  all  my  years  fall  upon  me 
in  a  moment,  like  a  shower  of  ashes?  ..." 

Mortimer  laughed  sceptically. 

"  Yes !  but  suppose  .  .  .  And  listen  ...  for  all 
my  strange  youth,  I  am  an  old  woman.  Even 
though  my  beauty  should  last,  in  a  very  few  more 
years  I  must  die.  You  are  still  a  boy.  When  you 
are  thirty,  Mortimer,  it  may  well  be  time  for  me 
to  die  .  .  .  " 

"  I  love  you,"  said  Mortimer,  for  answer. 

"  Yes !  But  would  yon  love  me  if  you  k?iezv 
that  in  two  years  I  should  look  really  old  ...  or, 
Mortimer,  would  you  love  me  if  you  knezv  that  in 
two  years  I  have  to  die?  .  .  .  " 

"  I  love  you  —  there  can  be  no  conditions.  Any- 
one we  love  might  die  .  .  .  would  two  years  seem 
too  short  a  time  to  be  married  to  you  —  Constan- 
tia? ..." 

For  the  first  time  he  dared  to  say  her  name. 

"  If  I  say  that  I  know —  know  as  I  know  a  date 
in  the  almanac  —  seriously  know  —  that  in  two 
years  I  must  die,  do  you  still  wish  me  to  be  your 
wife?  ..." 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  —  even  supposing  all 
that  you  say  is  anything  but  dreams?  ..." 


24  Painted  Shadows 

"  But  tell  me  .  .  .  you  would  not  think  I  had 
cheated  you  if  I  slipped  away  and  died  —  you 
would  not  think  that  I  had  not  played  fair  ..." 

So  Constantia  had  already  determined  to  quiet 
her  conscience  by  a  desperate  resolve,  and  with  the 
two  years  of  her  beauty  that  were  left  to  her  buy 
the  only  love  she  had  ever  known;  and,  like  any 
other  lover,  Mortimer  was  bent  on  taking  the  always 
mysterious  risks  of  love. 

The  two  years  were  growing  terribly  near  to 
their  close.  But  a  few  weeks  of  her  beauty  re- 
mained, and  then  she  must  either  keep  her  promise 
to  herself  and  die  while  she  was  still  young  to  look 
upon,  or  be  hideously  revealed  to  her  husband  in 
all  her  withered  years.  Her  heart  stood  still  with 
terror  at  the  thought.  O  was  there  no  other  way  ! 
The  love  Mortimer  had  given  her,  precious  as  it 
had  seemed  in  its  first  giving,  had  grown  still  more 
precious  with  time  —  more  devoted,  more  gentle, 
day  by  day.  Her  heart  ached  to  see  how  he 
loved  her,  and  often  she  tried  to  quiet  her  con- 
science by  reminding  him  of  what  she  had  said  the 
day  she  had  promised  to  be  his  wife.  The  time 
was  drawing  near,  she  would  tell  him  again  and 
again,  when  she  must  go  away  from  him — when 
she  must  die.  But  his  only  answer  was  to  smile 
tenderly  at  her,  and  take  her  glorious  face  in  his 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia      25 

hands,  and  kiss  her  eyelids,  soft  and  full  and  silken 
as  the  petals  of  a  rose. 

"  No,"  he  laughed,  "  it  is  you  that  will  soon  have 
a  queasy  old  fellow  on  your  hands,  to  humour  and 
nurse  and  put  up  with  —  and  perhaps,  who  knows, 
some  dashing  young  person  will  be  coming  along 
and  stealing  your  love  from  the  tiresome  nonoge- 
narian  in  the  chimney  corner?  I  found  a  grey  hair 
this  morning — think  of  that!  But  this  dear  hair 
—  ah,  how  thick  and  golden  it  is  ...  " 

"Don't  jest,  O  don't  jest,  Mortimer,"  Constantia 
cried,  cowering  into  his  arms.  "  It  is  more  serious 
than  you  know.  I  told  you  two  years  ago  that  it 
must  come,  and  I  know  now  it  is  coming;  I  hear 
it  coming  nearer,  moment  by  moment  ..." 

"  Well,  love,"  he  said,  petting  her  soothingly,  as 
one  soothes  a  child,  "  if  it  comes,  we  shall  meet  it 
together,  shall  we  not?  I  will  be  by  your  side, 
dear.  I  must  be  always  there.  I  could  not  live 
without  you,  Constantia  ..." 

"  No,  no,"  Constantia  exclaimed  in  horror,  tak- 
ing her  face  away  from  him  and  covering  it  with 
her  hands.  "No,  no!  I  must  face  it  alone  —  all 
alone,  Mortimer  ..." 

"That  will  be  selfish  of  you,  dear,  if  you  do  .  .  . 
But,  come,  let  us  go  for  a  ride,  and  blow  away  these 
dark  thoughts.  I  love  you  so,  my  Constantia. 
Don't  you  understand  how  I  love  you  ?  " 


2.6  Painted  Shadows 

He  meant  that  nothing  could  happen  that 
could  change  his  love  for  her  —  no !  not  even  if 
her  beauty  were  suddenly  to  die. 

As  the  days  went  one  by  one,  striking,  as 
it  seemed  to  Constantia,  some  dark  gong  in  the 
sky,  she  more  and  more  beat  herself  like  some 
beautiful  bird  against  the  cage  of  her  destiny. 
O!  was  there  no  other  way?  O!  was  there  no 
other  way? 

Surely  the  strange  man  who  had  done  so  much 
for  her  could  do  still  more.  She  would  go  to 
him  and  offer  him  —  O  !  half  her  fortune  —  any- 
thing—  for  just  a  few  more  years,  five  years  — 
—  one  year  even  —  O  !  even  a  few  more  precious 
days. 

So,  one  afternoon,  she  found  herself  again  in 
the  dingy  omnibus,  once  more  she  was  in  the 
dingy  street,  once  more  she  had  nervously  rung 
the  bell  of  the  dingy  little  house,  and  sat  hearing 
the  same  clock  ticking  the  minutes  to  the  same 
furniture. 

And  when  the  doctor  at  length  entered  the 
room  he  seemed  as  unchanged  as  all  the  rest. 
She  had  not  seen  him  all  the  years  since  her 
last  visit.  The  punctual  transmission  of  his 
fee,  each  unchanging  year,  had  been  their  only 
communication. 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia      27 

He  received  her  in  the  same  quiet  way,  with 
the  same  superb,  yet  unostentatious,  imperturba- 
bility. His  manner  had  the  simpHcity  of  a  great 
scientist,  master  of  some  secret  of  nature,  to  you 
so  mysterious,  but  to  him  a  comparative  common- 
place of  his  laboratory.  He  manifested  as  little 
surprise  or  self-gratulation  over  the  wonderful  girl- 
hood which  entered  his  room  —  though  Lady 
Constantia  looked  fully  twenty  years  younger  than 
when  he  had  last  seen  her  —  as  any  other  doctor 
when  his  treatment  has  turned  out  as  he  expected. 
It  was  his  business  to  make  people  young  —  what 
would  you? 

Of  course,  he  knew  what  Lady  Constantia  had 
come  to  ask  of  him.  It  was  inevitable  that  she 
should  come  thus,  and  implore  him  to  work  the 
miracle  over  again.  His  patients  invariably  came 
back  to  him  near  the  end  in  this  way,  and  he 
had  been  half  expecting  Lady  Constantia  for 
several  days.  Therefore,  once  more  he  helped 
her  out  with  her  broken-hearted  explanation  of 
her  visit,  and  endeavoured  to  tranquillise  the  wild- 
ness  of  her  appeal ;  waving  aside  the  sensational 
rewards  she  offered  him,  as  though  they  did  not 
concern  a  man  of  science,  such  as,  after  all,  it 
is  undeniable  that  he  had  proved  himself 

He  said  nothing  to  the  point  for  some  time, 
and  was  evidently  pondering  far  more  deeply  than 


28  Painted  Shadows 

he  had  pondered  on  her  first  visit.  Poor  Con- 
stantia  wistfully  watched  his  face,  snatching  a  wild 
hope  from  his  withdrawn  manner.  Then  at  last 
he  turned  to  her. 

*'  You  are  a  wonderful  woman,  Lady  Greville," 
he  said  —  for  she  had  thrown  her  name  and  her 
entire  confidence  into  the  scales  of  her  proffered 
reward.  "  Nature  at  your  birth  seems  to  have 
given  you  more  of  her  secret  life  than  I  realised 
when  I  first  saw  you.  I  have  never  met  any- 
one quite  like  you.  You  are  a  very  interesting 
case  ..." 

And  then  the  doctor  fell  to  pondering  again. 
It  was  evident  that  the  lovely  face  waiting  on  his 
word  with  such  piteous  intensity  was  entirely  for- 
gotten as  he  meditated.  Then,  an  unwonted  pro- 
ceeding with  him,  he  rose  and  paced  up  and  down 
the  room,  quite  close  to  the  beautiful  face,  almost 
brushing  it  with  his  coat,  so  little  did  he  heed 
it.  He  pulled  at  his  spare  black  beard  in  an 
abstracted  way,  and  seemed  now  and  again  to 
be  talking  to  himself  internally  and  making  cal- 
culations, which  he  punctuated  with  his  head,  as 
they  came  out  right  or  wrong.  At  last,  with  a 
startling  suddenness,  he  stopped  dead,  in  his  walk, 
and  as  he  turned  to  Lady  Constantia,  it  was 
evident  that  he  was  labouring  with  suppressed 
excitement. 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia      29 

*'  Yes  !  yes  !  I  see  my  way  !  "  he  said.  "  Yes  ! 
I  see  my  way !  " 

Lady  Constantia  fell  on  her  knees  hysterically 
and  kissed  his  hand. 

"  O !  how  can  I  thank  you  —  you  strange, 
strange  man !   .  .  .  " 

But  the  doctor  somewhat  brusquely  put  her 
aside,  and  bade  her  to  be  seated  and  listen. 

"  Before  you  thank  me,  listen  .  .  .  As  I  said  just 
now,  you  are  a  very  remarkable  woman.  I  saw 
that  at  first.  For  no  other  woman  could  I  have 
done  so  much  as  I  have  already  done.  Remember 
that  Nature  is  behind  all  I  do  —  without  her  help 
I  can  do  nothing  ..." 

"  Yes !  yes !  "  said  Lady  Constantia,  with  her 
hand  raised  as  in  prayer. 

"  But,"  the  doctor  continued,  "  even  with  you, 
what  you  ask  is  impossible.  It  is  astonishing  to  me, 
indeed,  that  I  can  do  even  what  I  can  do  ...  " 

But  for  the  moment  the  doctor  went  off  again 
into  his  calculations,  oblivious  of  the  woman  so 
desperately  hanging  on  his  every  word. 

"  Yes !  I  think  I  can  promise  that,"  he  said, 
coming  again  out  of  his  reverie.  "  Yes !  I  can 
give  you  back  —  half  your  beauty  for  a  time,  but 
for  how  long  I  cannot  say.  It  may  be  five  years, 
it  may  be  ten,  it  may  be  .  .  .  Well,  I  cannot 
promise  ..." 


30  Painted  Shadows 

"  Half  my  beauty  ..."  cried  Lady  Constantia, 
sinking  back  in  wonderment. 

"  Yes !  I  can  do  that  ...  I  see  I  can  do  that 
—  and  —  by  heaven  ..."  The  doctor  stopped 
short  as  though  he  had  suddenly  seen,  indeed, 
a  light  from  heaven ;  "  excuse  me,  but  I  see  one 
vi^ay,  too,  by  which  all  your  beauty  might  come 
back  .  .  .  but  that,"  he  added,  "  will  not  depend 
on  me." 

Then  suddenly,  with  a  sort  of  tenderness,  he 
held  out  his  two  hands  almost  gleefully  to  Lady 
Constantia,  and  took  hers  in  a  congratulatory 
way. 

"  Upon  my  word,  you  are  a  most  remarkable 
case  ..."  he  exclaimed. 

"But  half  my  beauty  .  .  .  what  can  you  mean? 
and  that  other  contingency  you  speak  of  ...  O, 
tell  me  more  clearly  ..." 

"  I  cannot,  for  I  hardly  know  myself.  But  this 
much  I  see,  that  so  remarkably  vital  are  your  own 
original  forces  of  beauty,  that  I,  by  certain  knowl- 
edge and  power  I  possess,  which  arc  my  secret, 
can  so  sustain  them  that  one  half  of  your  beauty 
can  be  saved  to  you ;  and  I  see,  too,  that  another 
man  holds  the  secret  of  restoring  the  other  half. 
What  his  power  is,  or  how  it  may  operate,  I  have 
no  knowledge  .  .  .  only  I  am  able  to  see  the 
possibility.      I  wish,  indeed,  Lady  Greville,  it  were 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia      3 1 

in  my  power  to  save  all  your  beauty  from  the 
fury  of  time.  Some  day  I  trust  that  my  studies 
may  have  taken  me  so  far  as  to  make  such  beauty 
live  for  ever  .  .  .  But  all  I  can  do  now  I  have  told 
you  ..." 

"  Half  my  beauty  ..."  said  Lady  Constantia. 
"  It  sounds  strange  .  .  .  However,  it  is  something. 
I  accept  your  offer,  doctor.  Let  me  keep  half  my 
beauty  ..."  and  then  she  added,  "  Your  fee, 
doctor?" 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  answered,  "  but  this  time  you 
must  permit  me  to  treat  your  case  in  the  disinter- 
ested interests  of  science.  It  is  worth  more  than 
money  to  my  studies  to  have  encountered  so  re- 
markable a  patient.  You  have  already  rewarded 
me  with  great  liberality,  and  your  fees  have  en- 
abled me  to  pursue  branches  of  my  science  which 
otherwise  I  should  have  been  obliged  to  neglect — • 
for  my  researches  are  costly  beyond  those  of  any 
other  science  ..." 

Lady  Constantia  endeavoured  to  over-rule  his 
objections,  but  it  was  in  vain;  and,  though  indeed 
the  money  was  nothing  to  her,  it  gave  her  con- 
fidence, as  she  once  more  hurried  home  through 
the  dingy  street,  that  her  mysterious  doctor  was 
indeed  no  charlatan,  that  his  strange  promise 
would  be  kept,  and  that  even  that  other  enigmatic 
forecast  of  his  might  also  come  true. 


32 


Painted  Shadows 


Half  her  beauty  .  .  .  what  could  he  mean? 
And  that  other  half  in  someone  else's  keeping  — 
what  could  that  mean?  In  whose  keeping?  O  if 
she  only  knew  in  whose  keeping  it  was !  Would 
she  not  go  through  the  world  seeking  him  —  give 
all  she  had  and  become  a  poor  woman  just  to  find 
him,  and  buy  from  him  that  other  half? 

Half  her  beauty  .  .  .  What  could  the  doctor 
mean?  Half  her  beauty!  Would  that  suffice  to 
hold  Mortimer's  love?  She  was  very  beautiful. 
"  Half  that  beauty,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
looked  in  the  glass.  "  Some  women  would  give 
much,  I  suppose,  to  be  even  half  so  beautiful  ..." 

Half  her  beauty  !  But  how  would  the  mysteri- 
ous mathematician  measure  and  divide?  Was  she 
not  to  die,  after  all?  Would  Mortimer  love  her 
still  with  —  only  half  her  beauty?  Or  should  she 
keep  her  promise,  and  die,  as  she  had  vowed, 
mysteriously  a  girl ! 

The  final  morning  of  the  tenth  year  came  at  last 
—  the  last  day  of  her  beauty.  When  evening  had 
come  and  Mortimer  bade  her  good-night  as  she 
went  to  her  room,  it  would  be  the  last  time  he 
would  see  the  Constantia  he  had  loved. .  When  the 
next  morning  dawned  she  would  be  either  dead  — 
or  changed. 

Should  she  tell  him  all?     Should  she  throw  her- 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia      33 

self  upon  the  mercy  of  his  love  ?  Ah,  no  !  it  would 
be  like  asking  his  leave  to  live,  a  reprieved  felon, 
existing  by  his  mercy.  No,  that  she  could  not 
bear.  So  by  an  extraordinary  self-command  she 
determined  to  make  that  last  day  the  most  wonder- 
ful of  all  their  days  together,  and,  if  indeed  it  was 
to  be  her  beauty's  setting,  her  beauty  should  at 
least  set  in  unforgettable  glory.  In  this  she  was 
able  to  succeed  so  well  that  the  day  passed  for  Mor- 
timer in  one  long  adoration  of  the  strange  woman 
he  loved.  From  morning  till  evening  he  could  not 
leave  her  side.  Never  had  the  spell  of  her  beauty 
been  so  strong  upon  him. 

But  though  her  power  over  herself  held  out 
remarkably,  she  could  not  refrain  from  bidding 
Mortimer  good-night  with  unusual  solemnity. 

"  O  Mortimer,"  she  cried,  as  she  stood  en- 
circled by  his  arms,  "  look  well  into  my  face. 
If  you  have  loved  it  —  and  indeed,  my  beautiful 
Mortimer,  you  have  loved  it  more  than  it  is  worth 
—  love  it  now;  for  perhaps  you  will  never  see  it 
again !   .  .  .  " 

But  her  husband  deemed  that  this  was  but 
another  of  those  attacks  of  strange  fear  that  had 
overcome  her  of  late. 

**  The  day  has  been  long  —  too  long  to  have 
been  so  wonderful,  my  Constantia,"  he  said.  "  We 
are  but  mortal,  after  all,  and  even  an  immortal  like 

3 


34  Painted  Shadows 

you  might  well  fall  a  little  faint  at  the  end  of  such 
a  day,"  Then,  after  a  pause  in  which  he  strove  to 
tell  by  the  strong  hands  so  gently  laid  on  her  hair 
all  that  words  were  so  poor  to  tell,  he  added : 

"  Constantia,  will  you  never  believe  in  my  love 
—  will  you  never  understand  how  much  longer  it  is 
than  time,  how  much  stronger  it  is  than  death.  .  .  . 
Sleep  well,  beautiful  head,  and  remember  that  if 
evil  dreams  should  come  —  I  am  near." 

And  so  Constantia  went  to  her  room,  and  the 
faithful  maid  who  had  grown  old  in  the  service  of 
her  eternal  youth  dressed  her  for  sleep.  Constan- 
tia felt  unwontedly  tender  towards  her  to-night. 

"  Mariette,"  she  said,  "  I  am  afraid  I  have  not 
been  always  so  considerate  as  I  should  have  been. 
I  have  long  meant  to  give  you  this" — and  poor 
Mariette  almost  gasped  at  the  note  which  her 
lady  crumpled  into  her  hand.  Strangely  enough, 
too,  she  took  the  little  shrunken  woman  by  the 
shoulder  and  kissed  her  on  her  hair  ...  so  that 
Mariette  went  away  wondering;  and  when  Con- 
stantia was  quite  alone,  she  softly  locked  both  the 
doors  of  the  room. 

For  whatever  was  to  be  must  be  to-night.  O,  at 
what  tick  of  the  clock  was  it  to  befall  —  at  what 
moment  of  this  fearful  night  was  she  —  to  change  ? 
She  looked  at  herself  again  and  again.  Yes!  she 
wag  wonderfully  beautiful.     How  smooth  were  her 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia      35 

cheeks,  how  bright  her  eyes,  how  round  her  throat ! 
Half  of  all  this  beauty  !     What  could  it  mean? 

At  last  she  lay  down  in  her  bed  and  drew  the 
sheets  over  her,  but  she  dared  not  put  out  the  light, 
and  she  could  not  sleep.  Her  little  clock  silverly 
ticked  and  ticked  and  ticked,  till  at  last  she  rose 
in  a  frenzy  and  buried  it  deep  in  a  drawer  muffled 
away  among  linen. 

But  still  she  seemed  to  hear  it  ticking :  "  Half  her 
beauty  —  half  her  beauty  —  half  her  beauty.  .  .  ." 

And  so  an  hour  or  two  went  by,  and,  in  spite  of 
herself,  Constantia  slept. 

Suddenly  she  awakened  as  out  of  a  nightmare  — 
and  passed  her  hand  involuntarily  over  her  face. 
What  was  this  !  What  was  this  against  her  hand  ! 
The  light  was  still  burning.  Once  more  she  leaped 
from  her  bed,  and  sought  her  mirror  —  and  then 
a  piercing  shriek  smote  like  the  sword  of  death 
through  the  house. 

"  O  my  God  !  Is  that  what  the  doctor  meant? 
Is  this  half  my  beauty?"  and  with  a  scream  she 
fell  in  a  swoon  upon  the  floor. 

Horror  !  Horror !  Horror  !  —  what  was  this  ? 
The  face  that  had  looked  back  at  her  from  the 
mirror  was  only  half  her  own.  The  other  half  was 
the  face  of  a  woman  of  ninety  !   .  .  . 

Mortimer,  who  had  slept  but  fitfully  in  his  adjoin- 
ing room,  sprang  from  his  bed  at  her  cry,  and  find- 


36  Painted  Shadows 

ing  the  door  locked,  called  on  her  to  open  it,  but, 
receiving  no  answer,  he  broke  it  open. 

She  was  lying  as  she  had  fallen  in  front  of  her 
mirror,  lying  on  her  beautiful  girl  cheek.  All 
Mortimer  saw  was  the  cheek  that  had  withered. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  as  one  might  stand  in  the 
presence  of  some  supernatural  terror.  His  next 
impulse  was  once  more  to  secure  the  door,  and  bid 
the  servants  who  were  already  seeking  admittance 
to  return  to  their  beds.  No  one  should  see  his 
Constantia  any  more  but  he. 

Then,  bending  over  her,  murmuring  his  love,  he 
lifted  her  up  and  placed  her  on  the  bed ;  and,  as 
he  did  so,  he  saw  how  much  stranger  it  was  even 
than  he  had  thought,  for  when  Constantia  lay  on 
her  right  side  as  he  had  placed  her,  lo !  the  face  he 
saw  was  the  girl  he  had  always  loved. 

"  There  is  still  left  me  half  her  beauty,"  he  said, 
"  half  that  wonderful  beauty  I  have  loved.  It  is 
not  all  lost  .  .  .  and,  even  if  all  should  go,  Con- 
stantia," he  said,  speaking  as  if  she  heard,  though 
she  lay  heedless  as  death,  "  even  if  all  should  go, 
I  would  still  love  you.  Thank  God,  at  last  I  shall 
be  able  to  make  you  understand  ..." 

And  thereon,  deep  in  the  silence  of  his  heart, 
he  registered  a  vow  to  be,  as  long  as  he  lived,  the 
faithful  priest  at  the  grave  of  Constantia's  lost 
beauty. 


The  Youth  of  Lady  Constantia      37 

Lost!  Nay,  only  half  lost,  and  once  more  he 
kissed  the  beautiful  girl  lying  there  with  her  rich 
hair  spread  over  her  faintly  flushed  cheek. 

"  Constantia,"  he  whispered,  "  I  love  you  "  ;  and 
holding  her  softly  in  his  arms,  again  and  again  he 
softly  told  the  sleeping  woman  how  he  loved  her 
—  how  he  loved  her  —  how  he  loved  her. 

And  so  the  night  passed,  and  the  dawn  came, 
and  filled  the  room  with  strange  gold.  Constantia 
had  not  moved  during  all  the  night,  but  had  lain 
just  as  Mortimer  had  placed  her.  Suddenly  she 
turned,  with  the  deep  waking  sigh  of  a  healthy 
child,  and  became  conscious  of  Mortimer's  arms 
about  her. 

"  What  has  happened?"  she  cried,  half  remem- 
bering, and  suddenly  sitting  up  ...  As  she  did 
so,  Mortimer,  too,  sprang  up  in  what  one  might 
perhaps  call  a  terror  of  joy. 

"  Constantia  !  "  he  almost  shrieked,  as  he  snatched 
a  hand-mirror  from  her  dressing-table.  "  Constan- 
tia !     Look !  " 

But  suddenly  full  consciousness  came  back  to 
Constantia,  and,  as  she  remembered,  she  dashed 
the  mirror  down,  so  that  it  broke  in  pieces  upon 
the  floor. 

"  O  Mortimer !  Mortimer  !  Be  merciful.  I 
know.  I  have  looked.  O  God,  forgive  me  — 
I  should  have  died." 


38  Painted  Shadows 

"  But  you  don't  understand,  Constantia.  See  — 
you  shall  look  —  "  and  he  carried  the  dear  form  to 
the  great  glass ;  and  something  wonderful  in  all  his 
tenderness  gave  her  courage,  so  that  she  dared  to 
look  .  .  .  and  when  she  looked  ... 

Well,  it  was  merely  Constantia  Greville  as  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  find  herself  in  her  mir- 
ror for  the  last — how  many  years?  She  turned 
one  cheek  and  then  the  other,  but  there  was  no 
difference  .  .  . 

Then  in  wonder  and  joy  she  turned  to  Mortimer. 

"  So  you  were  the  other  man,"  she  said,  throw- 
ing her  arms  about  his  neck,  "  and  your  love  was 
the  other  half  of  the  miracle." 


THE   SHADOW   OF   THE    ROSE 


THE   SHADOW   OF   THE    ROSE 


HAVE  you  ever  considered  the  shadows  of 
beautiful  things,  how  exquisite  they  are, 
how  strange,  how  filled  with  meanings 
and  messages ;  and,  as  well,  that  they  are  no  less 
real,  w^hen  you  come  to  think  of  it,  than  the  so- 
called  realities  by  which  they  live  —  mysteriously 
real  —  real,  you  may  even  deem,  with  a  more 
exquisite  reality?  The  shadows  of  sunny  leaves 
dappling  the  long  glades  of  the  woodland  silence 
and  falling  about  one  like  the  fairy  dies  that  make 
the  markings  on  flowers.  The  blithe  silhouettes 
of  darting  birds  on  the  window-curtains  in  early 
summer  mornings.  The  dreamy  flicker  of  sway- 
ing branches  across  the  page  in  summer  after- 
noons. The  shadow  of  a  flower  on  the  wall.  The 
shadow  of  a  beautiful  woman  on  a  blind. 

I  am  thinking  of  shadows,  because  for  a  full 
hour  I  have  been  watching  the  shadow  of  a  rose 
on  my  study  wall.  It  is  that  time  of  the  afternoon 
when  the  sunshine  is  at  once  richly  sensuous  and 
yet  haunted  as  with  a  spiritual  thought  —  the  mo- 


42  Painted  Shadows 

ment  when  the  superb  physical  bloom  of  the  day- 
is  at  its  proudest,  yet  touched  with  wistfuhiess,  as 
with  fear  of  the  coming  night ;  the  moment  when 
you  seem  to  be  waiting  for  the  opening  of  a  door, 
and  a  voice  secret  yet  clear. 

The  rose  is  very  beautiful.  Its  divine  head 
proudly  catches  the  gold  sun,  and  seems  to  rejoice 
in  its  own  sumptuousness,  yet —  why  is  it?  — my 
eyes  are  all  the  time  on  its  shadow.  It  might 
almost  seem  that  the  sun  and  the  rose  were  there 
only  to  make  that  beautiful  masterpiece  of  shadow 
—  the  sun  the  artist,  the  rose  the  material,  the 
result — this  dream  of  a  rose  upon  the  wall.  Do 
I  mean  that  the  shadow  of  the  rose  is  more  beau- 
tiful than  the  rose?  I  cannot  say.  I  only  know 
that  all  the  time  I  am  watching  the  shadow  and 
forgetting  the  rose.  Can  it  be  that  the  shadow  of 
the  rose  is  the  rose's  soul? 

No  less  than  the  rose  itself  is  it  created  by  the 
sun  out  of  particles  of  matter  so  fine,  the  im- 
material silver  of  shadows,  as  to  make  the  rose's 
texture  coarse  and  homespun.  By  the  side  of 
this  dainty  phantom  the  rose's  beauty  seems  a 
heavy,  material  thing. 

Would  you  say  that  a  beautiful  face  is  more  real 
than  a  picture  of  it?  —  yet  the  picture  will  remain 
long  after  the  face  has  passed  away.  Then  should 
one  not  rather  say  that  it  was  the  face  that  was 


The  Shadow  of  the  Rose  43 

the  dream,  and  the  picture  the  reality?  When  we 
look  back  upon  our  lives,  do  we  not  see  that  it 
was  the  shadows  that  were  the  realities?  What 
of  those  long  morning  shadows  full  of  romantic 
promise  that  ran  before  us  in  the  sunrise  of  our 
lives,  kissing  their  hands  and  inviting  us  to  myste- 
rious goals?  What  of  Love?  What  of  Fame? 
They  were  real  only  so  long  as  they  ran  before  us, 
shining  shapes  of  promise.  They  were  real  only  so 
long  as  they  were  shadows. 


II 

As  I  contemplate  that  shadow-rose  on  my  wall, 
it  comes  to  me  that  thus  has  my  life  gone  by.  All 
my  life  have  I  been  loving  the  shadow  of  the  rose, 
and  so  it  will  be  with  me  till  I  die.  I  am  of  those 
for  whom  it  is  destined.  My  Rose  will  always 
belong  to  another  —  but  her  shadow  will  belong 
only  to  me. 

Long  before  I  saw  the  Rose  I  had  known  she 
was  in  the  world,  for  her  beauty  was  upon  the  lips 
of  Fame.  I  had  seen  a  picture  of  her  face,  and 
thought  how  strange  it  would  be  if  I  should  ever 
come  so  near  to  that  fairness  as  to  hear  her  voice. 
But  she  lived  in  a  far  land,  and  it  seemed  unlikely 
that  our  paths  would  ever  cross.  Then  by  chance 
one  day  I  heard  that  she  was  coming  over  the  sea. 


44  Painted  Shadows 

The  Rose  was  coming  over  the  sea  —  and  for 
days  the  western  wind  seemed  sweet  with  her 
coming. 

A  caravan  from  China  comes  ; 

For  miles  it  sweetens  all  the  air 
With  fragrant  silks  and  dreaming  gums, 

Attar  and  myrrh  — 
A  caravan  from  China  comes. 

O  merchant,  tell  me  what  you  bring, 
With  music  sweet  of  camel  bells; 

How  long  have  you  been  travelling     > 
With  these  sweet  smells  ? 

O  merchant,  tell  me  what  you  bring. 

A  lovely  lady  is  my  freight, 

A  lock  escaped  of  her  long  hair,  — 

That  is  this  perfume  delicate 
That  fills  the  air  — 

A  lovely  lady  is  my  freight. 

Her  face  is  from  another  land, 

I  think  she  is  no  mortal  maid,  — 
Her  beauty,  like  some  ghostly  hand. 

Makes  me  afraid  ; 
Her  face  is  from  another  land. 

The  little  moon  my  cargo  is. 

About  her  neck  the  Pleiades 
Clasp  hands  and  sing;  lover,  'tis  this 

Perfumes  the  breeze  — 
The  little  moon  my  cargo  is. 

The  Rose  was  coming  over  the  sea,  and  my  heart 
wondered:    Shall  we   ever   meet?     One    of  those 


The  Shadow  of  the  Rose  45 

mysterious  voices  of  the  soul,  which  are  deeper  than 
reason,  whispered  that  nothing  could  prevent  our 
meeting,  and  with  the  premonition  was  blended  a 
vague  fear  as  of  some  beautiful  sad  destiny  about 
to  fulfil  itself  Yes  !  The  Rose  and  I  would  surely 
meet.  Yet  I  said  that  I  would  in  no  way  plan  to 
that  end.  A  meeting  so  devised  would  seem  value- 
less to  me ;  as  little  significant  as  though  one  in 
love  with  a  queen  whom  he  had  never  seen,  hearing 
that  she  was  to  be  present  at  a  theatre,  should  buy 
a  box,  that  he  might  look  upon  her  during  the  per- 
formance. No,  if  we  were  to  meet  at  all.  Fate  and 
not  I  must  arrange  the  meeting. 

Next  I  read  in  the  papers  that  the  Rose  had 
landed.  She  was  in  London.  The  Rose  was  in 
London.  She  and  I  had  come  so  near  across  Time 
and  Space  as  to  be  in  London  together.  London 
had  become  an  enchanted  forest,  and  somewhere  in 
its  heart  was  hidden  a  magic  flower.  To  think 
that  somewhere  in  that  vast  maze  of  streets  the 
Rose  was  moving  to  and  fro,  like  any  other  woman. 
Any  moment  she  might  whirl  by  me  in  her  car- 
riage, any  moment  I  might  turn  a  corner,  and  the 
Rose  be  there.  Soon  I  began  to  read  that  she  had 
been  here,  or  that  she  had  been  there,  at  this  party 
or  that  theatre.  Soon  my  friends  began  to  tell  me 
how  last  night  they  had  met  the  Rose,  and  after  a 
while  I  seemed  to  be  always  entering  a  room  the 


46  Painted  Shadows 

moment  after  she  had  gone,  and  be  aware  of  the 
sweetness  she  had  left  behind.  She  seemed  to  be 
always  invisibly  near  me,  like  a  goddess  in  her  rosy 
cloud. 

Yes !  The  caravan  had  come  from  China, 
and  London's  drawing-rooms  were  filled  with  its 
fragrance. 

"  The  Rose  was  here  just  now,"  my  friends  would 
say,  and  "  Oh,  but  you  must  meet  the  Rose,"  they 
were  always  saying.  "  We  must  arrange  a  little  din- 
ner." I  smiled,  but  preferred  to  elude  even  friendly 
diplomacy  to  bring  about  my  meeting  with  the 
Rose. 

If  we  were  ever  to  meet,  surely  some  diviner  ma- 
chinery than  the  social  stratagem  must  be  already 
moving  to  an  event  like  that.  Oh,  no  !  It  must 
never  be  said  that  it  was  through  Mrs.  Williamson 
that  I  first  met  the  Rose.  No  one  less  than  a 
Heavenly  Power  must  presume  to  bring  the  Rose 
and  me  together.  Sometimes  I  vaguely  pictured 
our  meeting  in  a  great  solitude  of  stars,  with  the 
sound  of  the  sea  at  our  feet,  and  the  moon  rising 
and  harps  hidden  in  the  sky.  Or  we  might  meet, 
I  thought,  on  a  mountain-top,  some  morning  as  the 
day  was  breaking  —  suddenly  stand  face  to  face, 
only  she  and  I,  in  the  holy  dawn. 

It  has  since  struck  me  as  rather  remarkable  how 
instinctively  my  friends  divined  that  the  Rose  and 


The  Shadow  of  the  Rose  47 

I  were  intended  to  meet.  If  Nature  herself  had 
told  them  —  as  perhaps  she  did — they  could  not 
have  been  more  convinced  of  our  affinity. 

"  Why,  it  is  ridiculous  that  you  have  never  met !  " 
they  would  say  sometimes.  "You  were  born  for 
each  other !  "  and  so  on.  Friends  occasionally 
make  mistakes  with  their  amiable  sorcery  of  this 
kind,  and  induce  a  spurious  interest  in  two  strangers, 
one  for  the  other,  which,  when  they  meet,  is  apt  for 
the  time  to  wear  the  appearance  of  a  more  genu- 
ine relation.  The  unknown  thus  presented  to  our 
thoughts  is  apt  to  ensnare  our  imaginations  in  ad- 
vance, and  we  are  so  prepared  to  fall  in  love  before- 
hand that  when  the  meeting  happens  at  last,  there 
seems  nothing  else  to  do. 

But  it  was  not  so  with  the  Rose  and  me.  Higher 
Powers  than  our  friends  had  interested  themselves 
in  our  meeting.  We  had  been  born  to  meet,  born 
to  love  each  other — or,  should  I  only  say  that  I 
had  been  born  to  love  the  shadow  of  the  Rose. 


Ill 

After  all,  it  was  at  Mrs.  Williamson's  that  we  met, 
one  of  those  evenings  when  that  dear  woman 
gathers  about  her  what  she  calls  "  artistic  people," 
to  the  accompaniment  of  hired  strings  in  the  hall 
and  many  sandwiches.     Actually  it  was  a  strange 


48  Painted  Shadows 

place  in  which  to  meet  the  Rose,  and  how  strange 
she  looked  there,  amid  the  twitter  of  little  epigrams, 
lonely  as  the  moon  above  the  frivolity  of  some  silly 
little  town. 

I  had  gone  there  with  no  thought  of  meeting 
her;  gone  for  quite  a  different  reason,  gone,  in 
fact,  because,  like  all  of  us,  I  admired  Mrs. 
Williamson's  red  hair  —  and  went  to  look  at  it  once 
more,  as  one  goes  out  to  gaze  at  a  sunset.  If  I 
had  been  aware  that  Mrs.  Williamson  and  the  Rose 
were  acquainted,  I  don't  think  I  should  have  gone ; 
but,  actually,  Mrs.  Williamson  was  one  of  the  few 
among  my  friends  who  had  never  mentioned  the 
Rose's  name. 

However,  it  was  Mrs.  Williamson's,  and  no  more 
august  stage,  that  those  Higher  Powers  had  chosen 
for  our  meeting  place ;  but,  as  a  great  event  digni- 
fies the  lowhest  spot,  as  fields  once  sleepy  pastures 
are  startlingly  transfigured  with  mighty  armies,  and 
the  name  of  a  meadow  is  made  immortal  by  war, 
as  some  village  stable  is  suddenly  visited  by  angels, 
to  become  for  ever  a  shrine  for  all  the  world  —  with 
a  like  significance  I  sometimes  say  to  myself  — 
"  Mrs.  Williamson's." 

I  have  since  thought  it  was  strange  that  I  should 
have  been  in  the  room  quite  a  long  time  before  I 
knew  she  was  there,  for  I  would  have  said  that  I 
could  not  have  been  so  near  her  and  unaware  of 


The  Shadow  of  the  Rose  49 

her  presence  —  yet  so  it  was,  and  I  talked  gaily 
with  a  bright  little  creature  I  knew,  little  thinking 
how  near  was  the  striking  of  the  clock.  Then  I 
remember  that  two  people  were  talking  near  me, 
and  one  of  them  was  saying: 

"Isn't  she  beautiful  to-night?  Really  she  is 
more  beautiful  than  ever !  " 

"Who  is  it  that  is  so  beautiful?"  I  turned  and 
asked,  for  I  knew  the  speaker.  "  Who  is  it  that  is 
so  beautiful?"  I  asked,  unconsciously  inviting  my 
doom. 

"  Why,  the  Rose,  yonder,"  answered  the  man, 
casually.     "  I  never  saw  her  look  so  beautiful." 

The  Rose  !  If  the  man's  words  had  been  a  flash 
of  lightning  striking  down  between  us,  my  face 
could  hardly  have  shown  so  white,  or  my  heart 
stood  so  still.  The  Rose !  I  bent  my  head.  I 
dared  not  look  upon  her  yet.  I  must  gather  all  of 
myself  together,  bid  farewell  to  all  I  had  been,  be 
ready  for  all  that  was  to  be.  For  I  knew  that  when 
I  raised  my  head  I  was  to  look  upon  the  face  of 
Love,  which  is  the  face  of  death  as  well.  Then  I 
raised  my  head  and  looked  —  and  the  world  was 
changed. 

She  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  a  small  group 
of  fluttering  admirers,  half  a  dozen  witty  fellows, 
chirruping  their  little  good  things  at  her,  like  grass- 
hoppers at  the  feet  of  a  sphinx,  for  to  all  they  said 

4 


50  Painted  Shadows 

she  seemed  to  be  answering  nothing,  standing 
amongst  them  quite  silent,  with  a  lonely  smile  on 
her  beautiful  face  —  as  far  away  from  them  she 
seemed  as  a  star  shining  in  a  pool  in  the  middle  of 
a  wood  —  silent,  mysterious,  alone.  She  seemed 
like  the  queen  of  some  hidden  kingdom  of  the  air, 
fairy-folk  of  the  elements,  who  had  lost  her  way 
into  this  little  drawing-room  and  was  looking  for  a 
door  of  escape  back  to  her  own  people ;  and  her 
eyes  had  a  wistful,  seeking  expression  —  and  were 
just  a  httle  frightened,  I  thought.  The  men  were 
plainly  disconcerted  by  this  unaccustomed  creature, 
and  their  twitter  died  down  in  embarrassment. 

Suddenly  she  turned  her  great  eyes  on  me. 
"  O  take  me  back  to  Fairyland  !  "  they  seemed  to 
say.  "This  is  not  your  home  any  more  than  it  is 
mine.  These  little  people  frighten  me.  Let  us 
escape  together.     O  take  me  away." 

Ah !  it  was  not  Mrs.  Williamson's,  after  all.  It 
was  Solitude  and  she  and  I,  and  a  voice  like  distant 
thunder  over  our  heads,  giving  us  to  each  other. 
And  others  in  the  room  beside  ourselves  heard  the 
thunder;  for  I  well  remember  that  when  I  next 
came  back  to  consciousness  of  Mrs.  Williamson's, 
there  was  a  curious  look  upon  the  faces  of  the 
talkers,  as  though  they  had  been  fellow-spectators 
of  a  strange  happening.  And,  indeed,  had  they 
not  seen  two  whom  Life  had  chosen  for  each  other 


The  Shadow  of  the  Rose  51 

meet — there  before  their  very  eyes?  Is  there  a 
stranger  thing?  If  we  had  cried  out  each  other's 
names,  it  could  not  have  been  plainer  that  from 
that  moment  we  were  each  other's. 

As  it  was,  I  do  not  remember  our  talking  at  all. 
Suddenly  we  were  together  in  the  solitude.  The 
little  leaves  were  whispering  all  around  us,  and 
bright  little  eyes  were  peering  at  us  out  of  the 
boughs,  but  we  heeded  them  not,  there  in  that 
heart  of  the  ancient  wood  which  we  had  discovered 
in  Mrs.  Williamson's  drawing-room. 

There  we  sat  very  still  and  looked  at  each  other, 
and  I  thought  my  heart  would  break  with  the 
happiness  of  looking  at  her  —  she  was  so  beautiful 
—  break  with  the  joy  of  having  found  her  there,  so 
lovely  a  thing  in  the  solitude. 

My  love,  viy  love,  thou  art  fair!     Thou  hast  dove's  eyes. 

If  we  talked,  I  know  not  what  we  said,  though  I 
remember  all  else  of  that  night,  can  see  and  hear  it 
all,  as  vivid  still  and  near  as  the  shadow  of  that 
rose  yonder  on  the  wall.  How  well  I  remember 
every  detail  of  her  dress  that  night,  I  who  have 
never  been  able  to  say  what  any  other  woman  wore. 
Let  me  indulge  my  lover's  heart  with  trying  to 
describe  that  little  frock ! 

A  trailing  kirtle  of  velvet,  rich  and  soft,  its  volu- 
minous folds  hanging  in  long  lines  of  wondrous 


52  Painted  Shadows 

colour.     All  the  treasures  of  the  opal,  blending 
with  the  beauteous  sea-stone,  the  amethyst,  do  but 
give  a  hint  of  its  rare   shimmerings,    which    now 
allure  the  happy  eye  as  would  a  field  of  honey-full 
clover   blossoms,  a   rare  and  seductive    mauve  in 
sunlight,  and  again   which    seemeth    to  be  of  the 
warm  gray  that  broods  across  a  bare  woodland  at 
Winter's  dusk.     And  gaily  on  these  lustrous  folds, 
toward  the  small  feet  that  appear  on  occasion  to 
kiss  the  hem  of  it,  twine  garlands  of  round  trees 
and  flowers  and  vines  and  lovers'  knots,  all  needle- 
wrought  in  amethyst  and  gray  and  gold.     A  goodly 
blending  of  these  there  are,  and  likewise  are  they 
scattered  over  the  bodice,  as  though  careless  to  re- 
veal or  to  conceal  the  shot  silk  of  amazing    soft 
lustres  that  hath  been  fashioned  into  a  small  coat, 
which  hath  been  slashed  away  in  the  front  and  on 
the  sleeves,  the  more  sweetly  to  display  airy  gos- 
samer mousseline,  silky  white,  which    hath    been 
confined  at  the  small  waist  by  a  rich  girdle  of  blue 
and  a  brave  buckle  of  brilliants.     Add  to  this  a 
touch  of  the  same  pale  blue  at  the  slim  throat  and 
a  band  of  gold  that  doth  most   kindly    hold    the 
sleeve  high  on  the  arm,  so  that  its  round  beauty 
may  not  hide  unnoticed. 

Ah !  but  mcthinks  I  can  as  little  describe  her 
gown  as  I  can  describe  her,  or  remember  the 
words  we  said. 


The  Shadow  of  the  Rose  53 

No,  not  one  word  can  I  remember  from  that 
night,  but  I  know  well  what  my  heart  was  saying. 

"  Great  Queen,"  it  said,  "  if  in  all  the  world  of 
faces  that  come  and  go  a  man  should  find  at  last 
your  face  —  what  should  he  say?  What  shall  he 
do?  What  can  such  a  one  say,  but,  forgetting  all 
other  faces:  '  Here  am  I,  O  Queen,  a  firefly  that 
has  flitted  hither  and  thither,  seeking,  seeking,  for 
the  maker  of  the  light  of  which  I  have  but  a  tiny 
spark.  In  vain  have  I  flashed  my  small  lantern 
upon  this  one,  upon  that,  searching  for  the  whole 
of  which  I  form  a  part,  searching  for  you  ! '  O 
radiant  one,  so  dazzling,  yet  so  grandly  simple  — 
what  shall  I  say  but:  '  I  have  come.  I  have  found 
thee.  Let  me  merge  my  light  in  the  light  that  is 
thee.'  " 

And  again  my  heart  said  very  softly : 

"  Dear,  why  have  you  yo/ir  eyes,  why  do  you 
have  your  hands,  and  the  true  clasp  of  them  ;  why 
your  hair,  your  soul?  Why  should  they  be  so 
dear,  so  inexpressibly  sweet,  so  necessary  to  me? 
Why  should  the  heart  dream  and  ache  for  such, 
that  have  been  in  the  world  since  it  began,  simply 
because  they  are  yours  f 

"Can  you  answer  these  love's  riddles?  I  care 
not,  if  you  but  love  me  —  love  me  —  love  me  .  .  . 
and  love  me,  and  love  me. 

"O  Queen,  I  love  you.     You  — YOU!" 


54  Painted  Shadows 

So  spake  my  heart  to  the  Rose,  as  I  sat  and 
worshipped  her  that  evening  at  Mrs.  WilHamson's, 
there  in  the  solitude ;  and  once  for  a  moment  she 
laid  her  hand  on  mine  and  I  heard  her  heart 
speak. 

"  I  love  you,"  said  her  heart,  in  a  voice  strangely 
solemn  and  clear.     "  I  love  you." 

I  dreamed  that  night  that  God  had  given  me  the 
Rose —  but  it  was  the  shadow  of  the  Rose  He  had 
given  me. 


IV 

O  Dream-Rose  upon  the  wall  so  mysteriously 
made  of  the  velvet  shadows  and  the  tendrilled  sun- 
shine, I  watch  you  all  the  afternoon,  growing  newly 
exquisite  each  moment  with  the  changing  light, 
watch  you,  and  love  you,  my  Rose  of  Shadow. 
Others  may  think  the  Rose  herself  more  fair.  But 
not  so  I.  The  Rose  is  but  the  Rose's  body ;  you 
are  the  spirit  of  the  Rose.  You  are  all  my  dreams 
of  the  Rose,  and  I  dream  of  the  Rose  every  day 
of  my  life,  and  you  are  filled  as  with  dew  with  the 
tears  I  have  shed  for  her. 

Another  hand  gathered  the  Rose  herself  and  set 
her  in  his  garden,  but  I  envy  him  not;  for  at  the 
same  moment  that  he  gathered  her,  I  gathered  the 
shadow  of  the  Rose,  and  she  became  an  immortal 


The  Shadow  of  the  Rose  ^^ 

flower.  And  alas  !  the  Rose  herself  must  fade  and 
wither,  and  some  day  all  her  beauty  slip  from  her 
in  a  huddle  of  petals,  leaving  but  the  Autumn 
berry  of  the  Rose  —  but  the  Shadow  Rose  will 
never  fade.  For  it  was  made  when  the  light  of 
dreams  streamed  over  the  real  Rose  —  it  was  then 
I  gathered  it:  the  young  shadow  of  the  young 
Rose. 


Shadows  !  O  my  shadows,  how  I  love  you  ! 
How  you  come  about  me  in  the  haunted  sunset ! 
I  call  you  by  your  names  and  you  are  by  my  side 
—  dear  shadow  names  that  no  one  knows  but  I. 
The  sun  is  setting  and  the  shadows  come  about 
me,  the  beautiful  shadows  the  Sun  of  Life  made 
for  me  and  gave  me  —  mine  for  ever.  In  the  dusk 
they  seem  to  grow  thick  about  me  like  a  harvest 
field.  Yes !  They  are  my  harvest  of  shadows. 
The  day  is  nearly  ended.  Do  I  seem  lonely  in  the 
dusk?  No,  I  have  my  shadows.  They  come 
around  me  like  children.  Indeed,  I  am  not  alone. 
See  how  rich  life  has  made  me  !  See  what  beau- 
tiful shadows  we  have  made  together  in  the  sun, 
Life  and  I  !  All  these  dream  faces  are  mine.  It 
needs  my  eyes  to  see  them  now.  To  others  they 
have  passed  away ;   from  me  they  can  never  pass. 


56  Painted  Shadows 

See  how  we  smile  on  each  other,  the  dream  faces 
and  I. 

These  shining  shadows  are  all  the  love  and  won- 
der and  delight,  all  the  beauty  and  truth,  all  the 
kindness  of  my  days,  since  the  morning  sun  came 
up,  and  Life  and  I  and  the  sun  began  weaving  the 
shadows.  These  shadows  are  my  treasure.  They 
are  the  wealth  that  has  come  to  me  day  by  day. 
They  are  like  the  leaves  of  a  book  on  each  page 
of  which  is  written  a  wonderful  event.  What  lovely 
pages  they  are,  and  they  are  all  mine.  All  these 
marvellous  things  I  am  reading,  while  the  dream- 
rose  sways  on  the  wall,  happened  to  me.  These 
beautiful  people  I  am  reading  about,  these  lovely 
faces,  these  true  hearts,  these  sweet  voices,  are  all 
here,  all  written  in  the  beautiful  story-book  of  my 
years,  my  book  of  shadows,  each  page  of  which 
is  a  dream  that  came  true,  and  is  therefore  true 
for  ever. 

Passed  away,  did  you  say?  Nay,  look  again  at 
my  shadow-rose  on  the  wall.  It  grows  more  real 
as  the  sun  sinks  lower.  It  can  pass  away  only 
when  the  sun  itself  ptasses,  and  the  night  comes,  in 
which  the  rose  and  its  shadow  are  alike  seen  no 
more.  And  when  that  Shadow  of  Shadows  at  last 
falls  over  me,  will  it  not  still  seem  to  me  the 
Shadow  of  the  Rose? 


POET,   TAKE   THY   LUTE! 


POET,  TAKE  THY   LUTE! 

ALL  the  rest  of  the  village  of  Twelvetrees 
was  asleep,  and  only  the  moon  looked 
on — with  natural  sympathy,  one  cannot 
but  believe  —  at  what  was  taking  place  in  a  little 
house  on  the  hill-side,  somewhat  lonely  in  situa- 
tion ;  in  fact,  the  last  house  as  the  high-road  began 
to  breast  the  hill  and  seriously  settle  down  to  the 
King's  business  of  reaching  the  next  market-town. 
It  lacked  an  hour  of  midnight,  and,  for  some 
long  time  before,  the  moon  had  been  aware  of  the 
noise  of  altercation  inside  that  lonely  house.  A 
stern  voice,  heated,  one  might  surmise,  not  only 
with  anger  but  also  with  wine,  had  been  mightily 
pounding  at  a  boyish  voice  of  much  sweetness, 
which  was  occasionally  able  to  interject  a  pleading 
sentence  here  and  there  into  the  thunder-cloud  of 
the  darker  voice. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  cottage  flashed  open, 
and  a  frail,  boyish  figure  was  hurled  into  the  gar- 
den, and  the  door  shut  a^ain.  Almost  immediately 
it  was  again  opened,  and  an  object  which  the  poor 


6o  Painted  Shadows 

ejected  one  eagerly  recognized  as  his  lute  was 
thrown  after  him. 

"  Take  your  toy  with  you !  "  said  the  voice, 
"  and  never  let  me  see  either  of  you  again." 

The  lad  seized  his  lute  with  loving  anxiety,  and 
stood  up  in  the  light  of  the  moon  to  examine  it  — 
lest  it  should  have  suffered  hurt.  It  had  fared 
better  than  he  could  have  hoped.  Only  one  of 
the  strings  had  been  cut  upon  a  stone.  Involun- 
tarily he  tried  the  others  —  a  proceeding  which, 
being  mistaken  by  his  angered  father  for  bravado, 
provoked  a  fiercely  opened  window  and  a  volley 
of  books. 

"  Take  these,  too,"  shouted  the  father,  "  till 
you  read  these  you  were  of  some  use  in  the 
world  —  " 

The  boy  calmly  and  gently  examined  the  books, 
and  then,  turning  to  his  father,  he  said : 

"Father,  will  you  do  me  one  last  favour?  You 
have  thrown  me  out  the  wrong  books  ...  I  shall 
only  be  able  to  carry  one  upon  my  journey —  and 
it  is  not  here  —  " 

"Well?"  bellowed  the  father. 

"  It  is  a  little  vellum-bound  duodecimo  of  the 
poems  of  Catullus,  printed  by  the  Brothers  Elzevir 
of  Amsterdam,  father  dear  —  and  it  is  more  pre- 
cious to  me  than  any  other  book  in  the  world  —  if 
you  will  but   give  me  that  —  you  will  find   it,   I 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  6 1 

think,  on  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  fourth  shelf 
—  I  will  go  away  this  moment,  and  trouble  you  no 
more  as  long  as  I  live  — " 

There  was  something  so  irresistible  in  the  com- 
bined gentleness  and  self-command  of  the  boy  that 
he  was  able  to  win  this  concession,  and,  grimly 
leaving  the  window,  his  father  examined  the 
shelves  a  moment,  and  then,  finding  the  volume, 
threw  it  out  to  his  son,  who  caught  it  in  his  waiting- 
hands  with  the  skill  of  a  juggler. 

"  Is  that  the  nonsense  you  want?"  growled  the 
father. 

"  It  is  indeed.  Thank  you  with  all  my  heart !  " 
answered  the  son,  affectionately  placing  the  book 
in  his  doublet.  "  And  now  good-bye,  father ;  I  am 
very  sorry  to  have  been  such  a  disappointment  to 
you.  But  really  I  could  not  help  being  born  a 
poet  —  really  I  could  n't.  I  would  be  a  cordwainer 
if  only  I  could ;  indeed  I  have  been  trying  my 
best  —  " 

The  father  was  curiously  softened. 

"Hadn't  you  better  come  in  and  try  again?" 
he  said. 

"  No,  thank  you,  father !  I  have  tried  all  I  can. 
I  had  better  go  ;   good-bye." 

"Don't    you   want    any   money?"    called    the 
father. 
.  "  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  boy,   proudly.      "  I 


62  Painted  Shadows 

have  my  lute  "  —  and  therewith  he  flung  out  of  the 
garden,  and  up  the  hill  on  the  way  to  the  moon. 

So  soon  as  he  felt  himself  at  a  safe  distance,  he 
put  down  his  lute  softly  on  the  grass,  and  throwing 
his  hat  into  the  air,  danced  an  elfish  pas  seuly  ex- 
pressive of  wild  delight. 

"  Free,  free  !  "  he  shouted  aloud.  "  Free  !  think 
of  it !  no  more  cordwaining  any  more  for  ever  !  " 

"  But  now  to  business,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
finished  his  dance ;  "  where  shall  we  sleep,  O 
Jacobus  Rossignol,  and  where  shall  we  eat,  and 
moreover  where  is  the  money  to  come  from  to  do 
either?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  turned  out  his  pockets  to  the 
moon.  They  were  quite  empty,  except  for  a  little 
medal  of  our  Lady  of  Consolation,  which  had 
been  given  him  by  a  village  girl  who  had  fallen  in 
love  with  his  singing. 

Not  a  sou  !  However  that  was  no  surprise,  and 
no  great  worry.  As  for  sleep  —  how  often  had  he 
slept  under  the  stars,  lying  on  his  back  listening  to 
their  music  —  and  been  beaten  by  his  father  for 
his  truancy  !  A  bed  of  fern,  with  the  firmament  for 
a  bed-curtain  —  and  the  moon  for  one's  bride. 
Well,  in  Jacobus  Rossignol's  opinion,  here  you 
had  a  bedchamber  for  a  king. 

But  — 

Our  poor  Jacobus  suddenly  realised  that  he  was 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute!  63 

hungry.  Indeed  his  purse  was  no  emptier  than  his 
belly,  and  there  was  a  pain  in  one  which  he  did  n't 
feel  —  or  care  about  —  in  the  other. 

Yes !  he  must  eat !  Otherwise  how  could  he 
appreciate  his  starry  bedroom  as  he  would  wish  to? 
Even  a  poet  must  be  fed. 

He  looked  up  at  the  moon.  He  judged  by  her 
position  that  it  was  not  yet  midnight. 

"  Four  miles,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  four  good 
miles  to  the  inn  of  '  The  Flaming  Sword  !  '  — -and 
on  the  way  I  will  make  a  song  wherewith  to  buy  a 
supper !  " 

So,  with  a  brave  heart,  httle  Jacobus  Rossignol 
picked  up  his  lute,  and  stoutly  footed  the  high- 
road. 

In  spite  of  his  two  emptinesses,  his  heart  beat 
high.     How  could  it  be  otherwise  with  him,  on  so 
fragrant  a  night  of  spring,  and  with  such  a  moon  ! 
Indeed,  his  whole  nature  was  so  full  of  music  that 
anything  he  looked  at  or  thought  of  turned  imme- 
diately into  a  song.     Need  I  say  that  it  was  with 
no  thought  of  his  supper  that  he  made  this  song  to 
the  moon,  as  he  walked  with  his  lute  pressed  close 
to  his  heart?     However,  you  must  sing  about  some- 
thing nearer  than  the  moon  if  you  expect  a  sup- 
per in  exchange  for  your  song.     But  poor  Ros- 
signol had  never  been  practical — he   could  only 
sing  just  what  he  wanted  to  sing  at  the  moment; 


64  Painted  Shadows 

and  although  he  was  so  very  hungry,  he  wasted  all 
those  four  miles  in  making  this  song  to  the  moon : 

Sweet  mother  moon  !  for  am  I  not  your  child? 

Kind  mother  moon  !  what  is  your  child  to  do? 
For  surely  there  is  in  me  something  wild  — 

And  they  all  tell  me  that  it  comes  from  you. 

Here  am  I,  lonely  as  a  babe  new-born,  — 

Nothing  to  bring  the  world  in  hard  exchange; 

A  ray  too  dehcate  to  live  till  morn, 
A  phantom  in  the  daylight,  lost  and  strange. 

O  put  a  dream  into  my  lunar  head  — 

That  I  may  sell  its  silver  as  I  sing, 
And  earn  a  meal,  moon-mother,  and  a  bed. 

And  buy  my  bruised  lute  another  string. 

Though  "  The  Flaming  Sword "  was  still  open 
when  Rossignol  arrived  there,  it  was  evidently  all 
but  gone  to  bed.  The  landlord  was  just  awake  in 
a  corner  of  the  tap-room,  and  close  by  him  there 
snored  in  company  a  sodden-looking  ploughman, 
and  a  big  soldier  plainly  overcome  by  wine. 

As  Rossignol  pushed  open  the  door  and  looked 
in,  the  landlord  sat  up,  and  eyed  his  guest  with  no 
affectionate  regard.  At  first  sight,  poor  little  Ros- 
signol was  not  prepossessing  —  not,  at  all  events, 
to  landlords  —  with  his  thread  of  a  body  and  his 
white  wisp  of  a  face ;  and  then  he  looked  worn,  and 
poor  as  well,  and  he  had  not  had  the  forethought 
to  remove  the  dirt   from    his    clothes   consequent 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  65 

upon  his  father's  precipitation  of  him  into  the  gar- 
den. Surely  his  appearance  was  not  that  of  a  prof- 
itable visitor.  He  could  make  a  much  better 
impression  now  and  again,  as  I  will  endeavour  to 
explain  later ;  but,  at  the  moment,  the  landlord,  to 
say  the  least,  did  not  see  him  at  his  best. 

"  Well,"  shouted  the  landlord,  in  a  voice  as  near 
thunder  as  he  could  make  it  — "  Well,  what  do 
you  want !  " 

Rossignol  was  so  tired  that  he  had  not  his  cus- 
tomary nerve  about  him,  so  he  answered  promptly 
from  his  heart: 

"  Supper !  " 

"  Supper  .  .  .  You  are  a  likely  one  to  order  sup- 
per at  this  time  of  night,  aren't  you?  Let  me  see 
your  purse,  and  then,  perhaps,  you  shall  see  —  your 
supper  .  .  .  What  say  you.  Master  Weevil?  "  and 
he  nudged  the  snoring  ploughman  at  his  side. 
"  Supper  !  God  'a'  mercy  !  What  do  you  think 
of  that.  Corporal?"  and  he  appealed  to  the  sleep- 
ing soldier  —  but  the  corporal  was  too  fast  asleep 
to  hear  him. 

Seeing  that  his  humour  was  somewhat  wasted,  he 
again  turned  to  Rossignol. 

"  Let  me  see  your  purse,  young  man,"  he  said, 
"  and  then  we  will  see  about  supper." 

"  I  have  no  purse,"  answered  Rossignol,  seeing 
that  ready  words  could  alone  help  him.     "  I  threw 

S 


66  Painted  Shadows 

it  away  four  miles  back.  It  was  too  heavy  to  carry 
—  with  nothing  in  it.  Is  there  anything  so  heavy, 
Master  Hirondelle,  —  for  though  you  know  nothing 
of  me,  I  know  you  for  the  best  arm  at  bowls  in  six 
counties  —  is  there  anything  so  heavy  as  an  empty 
purse  ..." 

But  the  innkeeper  was  too  important  a  char- 
acter in  that  countryside  to  be  softened  with  so 
worn  a  compliment. 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  he  said.  "  But  supper 
costs  me  money  —  why  should  I  give  it  to  you  for 
nothing  ..." 

"  I  will  sing  you  a  song  in  exchange  ..." 
answered  Rossignol,  shouldering  his  lute,  as 
though  he  would  play. 

"  A  song  ...  a  nice  time  to  sing,"  answered  the 
landlord.  "  Why !  You  would  rouse  the  house. 
There  is  a  company  upstairs  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men worth  more  money  to  me  than  I  could  make 
out  of  fellows  like  you  if  I  kept  this  inn  for  a 
thousand  years  ..." 

But  it  was  somehow  evident  in  the  landlord's 
expression  that  he  had  a  kind  ear  for  music ;  and 
at  that  moment  the  big  soldier  suddenly  sat  up 
with  a  yawn. 

"Who  said  a  song!"  he  roared,  "a  song! 
that's  just  what  I  want.     Who  said  a  song  ..." 

The  Corporal  was  evidently  a  man  of  some  im- 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  dj 

portance  in  those  parts,  and  the  landlord  turned  to 
him  with  respect  .  .  . 

"  This  ragamuffin  here,"  he  answered. 

The  soldier  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  Ros- 
signol  with  sleepy  fierceness 

"  What  can  you  sing?  "  he  said  presently. 

"Anything,"  answered  Rossignol,  on  his  mettle. 

"  Can  you  sing  a  soldier's  song?  " 

"Can  I?" 

"  So !  ,  .  .  well  sing  us — 'The  Three  Jolly 
Corporals.'  " 

"That  I  cannot  do,  for  I  don't  know  it,  but  if 
Master  Landlord  will  give  me  a  cup  of  wine  — 
for  I  have  walked  a  long  way  and  am  tired  — 
I  will  sing  you  a  soldier's  song  of  my  own 
making  ..." 

"  No,  no,"  interrupted  the  landlord,  brusquely. 
"  I  am  here  to  sell  wine,  not  to  give  it  .  .  .  Let 
us  have  your  song,  and  we  will  see  about  your 
wine  ..." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  answered  Rossignol.  "  I  would 
do  as  you  ask,  if  I  had  the  strength,  but,  as  I  said, 
I  am  very  tired  and  I  am  too  faint  to  sing  without 
some  food,  or  at  least  drink  ..." 

"  Give  him  his  wine,"  said  the  soldier  command- 
ingly  to  the  landlord.  "  You  know  me.  Give  him 
a  full  cup  —  give  him  two,  if  he  will  —  and  see  that 
it   is  good  ...  I  like  the  boy,  there  is    a  brave 


68  Painted  Shadows 

light  in    his  face  .  .  .  Give    him    his  wine,  I  tell 
you  ..." 

And  the  soldier  being,  as  I  said,  a  great  man  in 
those  parts,  the  landlord  scuttled  off  immediately, 
and  in  a  moment  or  two  placed  a  tankard  in  front 
of  little  Rossignol  almost  as  big  as  himself. 

"Is  it  good  wine?"  asked  the  soldier,  who  be- 
tween wine  and  sleep  was  inclined  to  be  quar- 
relsome. 

"  It  is  the  best  Burgundy  in  my  cellar,"  answered 
the  host,  completely  cowed. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  the  soldier,  addressing  Ros- 
signol, "  allow  me  to  drink  to  you.  You  carry  a 
lute,  I  see ;  I  carry  a  sword.  They  have  always 
been  old  friends.  Men  like  our  host  here,  a  good 
fellow  in  his  wav,  don't  understand  these  matters. 
They  merely  sell  .  .  .  and  look  narrowly  at  their 
returns ;  but  the  soldier  and  the  poet  give  —  give 
for  the  joy  of  giving:  the  soldier  gives  his  life,  the 
poet  gives  his  song  —  and  ask  nothing  more  in  re- 
turn than  you  asked  just  now:  food  and  a  little 
wine  ..." 

Rossignol  was  naturally  much  cheered  by  this 
address,  and  he  raised  his  glass  to  the  Corporal  with 
a  smile  so  winning,  so  full  of  naive  gratitude  that 
the  Corporal's  heart  was  his  from  that  moment. 

"  My  name,  Corporal,"  he  said,  "  is  Jacobus 
Rossignol  —  if  I  had  a  sword,  how  proud  it  would 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  69 

be  to  be  the  younger  brother  of  your  sword  !  As 
it  is,  I  have  nothing  but  a  lute.  Would  it  were 
worthier  of  being  at  your  service  ..." 

Thereon  Rossignol  took  his  lute  and  pulled  here 
and  there  at  its  strings. 

"  It  has  had  an  accident  to-night,"  he  explained  ; 
"  one  of  its  strings  is  broken  .  .  .  but  I  will  do 
what  I  can  ..." 

"  No  hurry  !  "  said  the  soldier.  "  Let  us  drink 
another  cup  of  wine.  The  night  is  still  young,  you 
will  sing  all  the  better  ..." 

Presently,  as  the  wine  gave  him  heart,  Rossignol 
took  up  his  lute  in  good  earnest,  and  sang : 

Soldier  going  to  the  war  — 

Will  you  take  my  heart  with  you, 

So  that  I  may  share  a  little 
In  the  famous  things  you  do  ? 

Soldier  going  to  the  war  — 

If  in  battle  you  must  fall, 
Will  you,  among  all  the  faces, 

See  my  face  the  last  of  all? 

Soldier  coming  from  the  war  — 

Who  shall  bind  your  sunburnt  brow 

With  the  laurel  of  the  hero, 

Soldier,  soldier  —  vow  for  vow  ! 

Soldier  coming  from  the  war  — 
When  the  street  is  one  wild  sea. 

Flags  and  streaming  eyes  and  glory  — 
Soldier,  will  you  look  for  me  ? 


JO  Painted  Shadows 

The  Corporal  expressed  his  appreciation  of 
Rossignol's  ballad  with  such  heartiness  that  the 
ploughman,  who  had  slept  peacefully  through  the 
singing,  woke  up. 

"  You  have  missed  a  good  song,  Master  Weevil," 
said  the  Corporal,  "  but  perhaps  Master  Rossignol 
will  sing  it  over  again  for  your  benefit  ..." 

To  this  Rossignol  readily  assented,  once  more 
to  the  Corporal's  great  satisfaction. 

"  The  sword  is  all  very  well,"  said  the  plough- 
man, after  a  pause,  "  but  I  am  a  man  of  peace, 
a  man  of  the  fields  and  the  plough.  I  suppose 
you  have  no  quiet  song  for  a  countryman  like 
me  ..." 

"Have  I  not?"  said  Rossignol.  "Listen  ..." 
and  once  more  he  took  up  his  lute  and  sang : 

Let  whoso  will  sing  towns  and  towers, 
'T  is  not  so  that  my  heart  is  made  ; 

My  world  is  a  wide  world  of  flowers, 
Leaf  upon  leaf  and  blade  on  blade. 

Of  buds  and  butterflies  and  birds 

I  ponder,  lying  in  the  grass, 
For  company  the  quiet  herds, 

And  the  slow  clouds  that  pass  and  pass. 

Safe  in  the  leafy  arms  of  trees, 

I  watch,  through  many  a  summer  noon. 

The  silken  shadows  of  the  breeze. 

Till  the  stars  come  and  bring  the  moon. 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  71 

To  silent  talk  of  growing  things 

I  listen  with  a  loving  ear, 
And  all  that  buds  or  builds  or  sings 

Is  to  my  heart  beloved  and  near. 

O  meadows  of  the  earth  so  green  ! 

O  meadows  of  the  sky  so  blue  ! 
How  happy  have  these  sad  eyes  been 

Just  looking  my  great  love  at  you  ! 

So  sweet  was  the  sound  of  Rossignol's  voice 
that  it  presently  came  about  as  the  landlord  feared. 
One  by  one  the  guests  rose  from  their  beds  and 
stole  along  the  corridors,  and  hung  over  the  stair- 
case, forgetful  of  each  other,  if  only  they  might 
hear  more  clearly  that  unexpected  music.  Like 
bees  on  a  blossom  —  so  the  landlord's  guests  clung 
to  the  balustrade. 

Rossignol  had  but  finished  the  countryman's 
song,  and  was  in  the  act  of  raising  his  glass  to  the 
Corporal,  in  recognition  of  his  generous  praise, 
when  a  woman's  voice  haughtily  summoned  the 
landlord  into  the  hall.  It  was  the  Princess  Belle- 
fleurs,  speaking  for  all  the  rest. 

"  Who  is  it  that  sings  so  sweetly  at  midnight,  Mr. 
Landlord?  "  she  asked,  as  M.  Hirondelle  came  out 
with  a  cringing,  apologetic  mien. 

"  I  am  sure,"  answered  M.  Hirondelle,  "  I  beg 
your  pardon.  Princess.  I  beg  pardon  of  all  you 
lords  and  ladies,  but  ..." 


72  Painted  Shadows 

"  Fool !  "  answered  the  Princess.  "  Man  or 
nightingale,  give  him  this,  and  beg  him  sing 
another  song  " ;  and  she  flung  down  a  gold  piece 
as  big  as  a  rose. 

"Let  us  sec  him  too,"  she  cried;  and  thereon 
the  whole  company,  on  a  sudden  impulse,  streamed 
laughing  down  the  stairs  into  the  tap-room,  bid- 
ding the  landlord  bring  them  wine,  and  there  were 
Rossignol  and  the  Corporal  smiling  to  each  other 
over  their  cups. 

The  landlord  of  "  The  Flaming  Sword  "  was  so 
impressed  by  the  reception  given  to  his  vagabond 
guest,  that  when  Rossignol  made  ready  to  leave 
next  morning,  he  begged  him  think  twice  before 
setting  out,  —  for,  he  added,  so  long  as  he  was 
landlord  of  "  The  Flaming  Sword,"  Master  Jacobus 
Rossignol  might  count  on  it  as  his  home.  In  fact, 
if  he  would  only  consent,  he  was  willing  to  pay  him 
many  gold  pieces  a  month  in  exchange  for  his 
song. 

But  *'  No  —  no  !  "  laughed  Rossignol,  as  he 
stepped  out  once  more  upon  the  road.  "  Make  vie 
a  slave  if  you  will  .  .  .  but  my  lute  shall  be  always 
free." 

As  Rossignol  walked  along  in  the  morning  air, 
he  tossed  his  lute  up  towards  the  sun. 

"  Why !  I  believe  you  and  I  together  could  win 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  73 

a  kingdom,"  he  said,  apostrophising  it,  as  he 
caught  it  in  his  arms  as  tenderly  as  if  it  had  been 
a  flower ;  "  that  is,  if  either  of  us  were  foolish 
enough  to   care   about  a  kingdom  !  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  Rossignol  continued,  "  who 
would  care  to  be  a  king,  when  he  could  make 
songs  as  you  and  I,  and  fill  beautiful  eyes  with 
tears,  and  draw  lords  and  ladies  from  their  beds, 
and  make  strong  soldiers  our  friends  —  all  for  a 
handful  of  butterflies?  " 

Indeed,  little  Master  Rossignol,  without  being 
foolishly  arrogant,  was  very  satisfied  with  himself 
and  his  lute  and  life  in  general  this  May  morning; 
and  he  was  more  glad  than  ever  that  his  father  had 
cast  him  out  to  the  care  of  the  moon. 

"  Think  of  it !  "  he  exclaimed,  keeping  himself 
company  with  conversation,  as  was  his  dramatic 
habit,  "  think  of  it !  Who  in  the  world  is  so  free 
as  I  am?  Now,  other  men  walking  this  road  would 
have  business  great  or  small  that  demanded  their 
arrival  here  or  there,  A  mitred  abbot,  travelling 
luxuriously  with  his  kitchen,  must  needs  take  a 
certain  turning  of  the  road.  He  may  not  wander 
away  into  yonder  fairy  lane  of  hawthorn.  He  is 
due  on  a  grave  mission  at  the  Monastery  of  the 
Five  Streams  and  the  Fat  Meadows.  The  good 
monks  are  already  en  fete  in  anticipation  of  his 
coming.     He  cannot,  merely  as  a  gentleman,  dis- 


74  Painted  Shadows 

appoint  them  .  .  .  but  you  and  I,  my  lute,  have 
no  such  obligations.  No  one  expects  us.  It  mat- 
ters to  no  one  but  ourselves  what  road  we  take 
.  .  .  and  yet  our  wandering  music  will  always  find 
kind  ears  wherever  we  go  .  .  . 

"  Besides,  my  lute,  we  have  forgotten  ,  .  .  we 
have  money  as  well "  ;  and,  plunging  his  hand  into 
his  pocket,  he  drew  forth  the  rose-noble  which  the 
Princess  had  thrown  down  for  him  to  the  landlord, 
and  of  which  the  landlord  had  been  too  flurried  to 
rob  him. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  pretty  money !  "  said 
poor  Rossignol,  and  he  spun  it  after  a  lark  just  then 
climbing  his  ladder  of  dew,  catching  it  again  with 
his  usual  elfish  dexterity.  "Yes  !  it  is  too  beauti- 
ful almost  for  money.  It  is  almost  big  enough  to 
be  beaten  out  into  a  crown  ..." 

At  this  moment  his  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by 
his  becoming  aware  that  he  no  longer  had  the  road 
to  himself;  for  there  suddenly  faced  him,  moving 
slowly  between  the  trees,  a  small  dilapidated  cart 
drawn  sullenly  by  a  not  too  well-conditioned  don- 
key; and  it  rattled  rustily  as  it  crawled  along. 

But  immediately  his  eyes  forgot  the  donkey  and 
the  cart,  as  they  fell  upon  the  ragged  barefooted 
apparition  of  a  beautiful  girl,  who,  with  one  hand 
at  the  donkey's  bit,  held  in  her  other  hand  a  long 
wand  of  hazel  with  a  few  leaves  at  its  top. 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  75 

Presently  the  tinker's  cavalcade  came  within 
speech  of  Rossignol  —  for  it  was  just  a  tinker's  cart 
rattling  with  pots  and  pans;  and  as  the  girl  drew 
nearer  to  him,  he  saw  that  hers  was  at  once  the 
saddest  and  the  loveliest  face  he  had  ever  seen. 
Her  rags  seemed  rather  to  set  off  her  beauty  than 
to  mar  it,  and,  as  Rossignol  looked  upon  her  face, 
his  heart  sank  with  joy  and  sorrow ;  for  he  knew 
that  he  was  no  longer  free. 

Taking  his  hat  from  his  head,  he  bowed  to  her. 

"  You  seem  weary,"  he  said.  "  May  I  not  be  of 
some  trifling  service  to  you?  Let  me  drive  your 
donkey  for  you,  at  least  ...  or  will  you  not  rest 
here  a  little,  and  eat  some  cherries  with  me,  and 
refresh  yourself  with  wine  ..."  for  Rossignol,  in 
addition  to  his  gold  piece,  had  set  out  from  "  The 
Flaming  Sword "  with  his  wallet  comfortably 
packed  with  such  provision. 

"Hush!"  she  said.  "Your  face  is  gentle. 
But  I  dare  not  speak  to  you,  for  my  master  is 
close  behind.  I  left  him  but  now  in  the  village 
inn,  and  he  will  follow  me  in  a  moment.  He  is 
very  strong,  and  his  heart  is  very  hard  ..." 

"  Are  you  his  slave?  "  asked  Rossignol. 

"  Yes !  I  am  his  niece,  whom  he  has  fed  and 
clothed  from  my  cradle.  He  has  been  very  good 
to  me,  but  he  is  often  cruel  ..." 

"  But  see  ..."  said  Rossignol,  taking  his  lute 


76  Painted  Shadows 

in  his  hand,  "with  this  I  can  do  anything  —  give 
me  leave,  and  I  will  soften  his  heart  with  a 
song  ..." 

"  Hush !  "  said  the  girl,  "  I  hear  him  coming. 
Leave  me,  for  he  will  beat  me  if  he  should  see 
us  talking  together    ..." 

But,  almost  before  Rossignol  could  answer,  a 
lumbering  giant  of  a  man  had  overtaken  them, 
and  with  loud  oaths  demanded  of  his  niece  why- 
she  thus  loitered  to  talk  with  strangers  upon  the 
road. 

Rossignol  had  barely  time  to  whisper  to  her, 
"  I  will  love  you  as  long  as  I  live.  I  would  die 
for  you  ..."  when  he  found  himself  caught 
roughly  by  the  shoulder,  and  whizzed  off  so 
forcibly  that  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  remain 
standing  at  the  end  of  his  surprise.  But,  though 
he  had  almost  lost  his  feet,  he  had  neither  lost 
his  courage  nor  his  tongue. 

"  You  brute  !  "  he  shouted  at  his  enemy,  "  you 
brute !  " 

There  were  blades  of  grass  on  the  wayside  there 
which  were  almost  as  tall  as  Rossignol,  as  he 
stood  up  so  absurdly  ready  to  fight  the  impos- 
sible. But  there  was  such  a  fierceness  in  his 
white  shut  fist  of  a  face  that  even  the  giant  was 
moved  to  a  kind  of  admiration ;  yet  he  was  only 
a  common  creature,  after  all;  he  had,  as  we  said, 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  "JJ 

but  that  moment  left  the  inn ;    his  purse  was  Hght ; 
and  he  was  in  haste  to  reach  the  next  town. 

So,  with  the  least  trouble  in  the  world,  he  took 
the  wriggling  might  of  poor  little  Jacobus  by  the 
collar,  and,  boxing  his  ears  in  some  such  fashion 
as  an  elephant  might  admonish  a  fly,  he  flung 
him,  as  he  might  have  flung  a  nut,  down  into  the 
underbrush  at  the  edge  of  the  road. 

When  Rossignol  sat  up,  the  road  was  empty 
of  travellers  once  more. 

"  Faith ! "  he  said,  ruefully  picking  up  his  lute, 
"  we  are  not  so  powerful  as  we  flattered  ourselves 
.  .  .  but  no !  I  forgot.  It  was  I  that  failed,  not 
you  !  If  only  I  had  been  given  the  chance  to  sing 
him  our  song  of  Tlie  Green  Leaves  and  the  Blue 
Sky,  I  am  sure  he  would  have  listened  —  and,  who 
knows?  he  might  have  given  me  his  niece  for  my 
wife  ..." 

He  looked  down  the  road  sadly.  It  was  still 
rainbowed  for  him  with  the  remembrance  of  that 
beautiful  face. 

"  If  only  he  could  have  heard  me  sing !  "  said 
little  Rossignol. 

So,  somewhat  downcast,  Rossignol  picked  him- 
self up  out  of  the  fern,  and  walked  the  highroad 
once  more;  nor  did  he  nor  his  lute  say  a  word 
one  to  the  other  for  many  days.  Instead  of  sing- 
ing, he  paid  his  way  with  the  gold  piece,  for  he 


yg  Painted  Shadows 

was  so  sad  that   he  told    himself  over   and   over 
that  he  would  never  sing  again. 

But  one  day,  about  noon,  having  thrown  himself 
down  under  a  hawthorn,  with  all  its  fragrant 
clouds  for  a  canopy,  he  remembered  the  friend 
he  had  in  his  pocket,  and,  taking  out  his  httle 
Catullus,  began  to  read  about  Lesbia's  sparrow 
for  the  thousandth  time.  The  day  was  heavy  with 
all  the  honey  and  the  heat  of  the  summer,  and, 
as  he  read,  the  book  fell  from  his  hand,  and  he 
slept  there  on  the  grass  underneath  the  hawthorn, 
the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand  in  the  book,  and 
his  right  arm  thrown  lightly  over  the  back  of  his 
lute. 

"What,  after  all,  is  he  but  a  child?"  said  the 
Princess  Bellefleurs,  as,  by  chance  passing  that  way 
in  search  of  silence  and  wildflowers,  she  found 
him  lying  asleep,  with  his  small  white  face  lying 
among  his  red  curls  like  an  egg  in  a  nest. 
"  Just  a  child  !  .  .  .  " 

"  I  wonder  what  his  mother  was  like,"  said  the 
Princess  softly,  as  she  sat  down  close  to  him 
under  the  hawthorn,  proposing  to  herself  to  cross- 
examine  him  for  her  amusement,  as  great  ladies 
may,  when  he  awoke. 

It  was  a  full  hour  before  he  even  stirred  in  his 
sleep;  and  meanwhile  the  Princess  watched  him 
with  a  very  gentle  look.     At  last  he  opened  his 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  79 

eyes,  just  as  he  lay,  and,  while  they  were  still  half 
asleep,  they  fell  upon  the  Princess.  Dreamily  he 
looked  at  her  without  a  word.  He  was  too  sleepy 
yet  to  distinguish  between  dream  and  daylight. 
At  length  the  Princess  spoke : 

"You  remember  me?"  she  said. 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  he  answered,  with  the  simplicity 
of  a  boy;  and  he  added  immediately: 

"  I  remember  only  one  woman.  You  are  very 
beautiful,  but  you  are  not  that  woman." 

"  And  who,  I  wonder,  was  she  ?  "  asked  the 
Princess. 

"  I  hardly  know,  for  I  saw  her  but  for  a  moment. 
She  was  the  niece  of  a  tinker,  and  I  saw  her  for  a 
moment  on  the  highroad  ...  I  do  not  even 
know  her  name,  for  I  had  hardly  spoken  to  her 
before  her  uncle  came  upon  me,  and  beat  me 
so  that  when  I  came  back  to  myself,  her  face 
had  gone  —  as  you  might  pluck  a  rose  from  a 
tree  ..." 

"  A  tinker's  niece !  "  said  the  Princess,  half 
to  herself ;  "  think  of  it  —  you  love  a  tinker's 
niece  ..." 

"  Why  not ! "  exclaimed  the  poet,  suddenly 
leaping  up,  wide  awake. 

"  Why  not !  indeed,"  answered  the  Princess,  with 
diplomacy.  And,  her  eye  falling  upon  the  open 
book,  she  turned  their  talk  a  safer  way. 


8o  Painted  Shadows 

"  You  are  a  scholar,  too,  I  see  !  Will  you  not 
read  to  me  out  of  your  book  ..." 

"  How  pretty  this  Latin  looks  !  "  she  added.  **  If 
only  I  could  read  it  .  .  .  Tell  me  what  this  means, 
dear  poet  ..." 

"  Alas !  I  am  no  scholar,"  answered  Rossignol, 
his  thoughts  momentarily  diverted.  "  I  am  too 
idle.  I  am  afraid  I  guess  at  the  meaning  of 
words  by  their  looks,  as  I  guess  at  the  meaning  of 
beautiful  faces  .  .  .  yet  this  surely  I  can  spell  out 
for  you.  I  was  trying  to  make  a  song  of  it  just 
now  as  I  fell  asleep.  My  words  are  poor  indeed 
in  exchange  .  .  .  what  words  have  I  for  words  like 
these  !  Ah  !  to  think  that  a  spray  of  this  hawthorn 
is  not  so  fresh  as  a  hne  of  Catullus  after  two 
thousand  years !     Just  listen  .  .  . 

"  Passer  mortuus  est  meae  puellae. 
Passer,  deliciae  meae  puellae, 
Quern  plus  ilia  oculis  suis  amabat  .  .  . 

"  The  tenderness  of  it !  Is  n't  it  strange  that 
words  of  so  long  ago  should  mean  so  much  to  me 
to-day,  sitting  here  under  a  comparatively  recent 
hawthorn !  What  words  have  I,  or  any  other 
man  .  .  .  but  listen  again  .  .  . 

"  A/'ec  sese  a  gremio  illius  tuovebat, 
Sed  circumsiliens  niodo  hue  modo  illuc 
Ad solam  dominam  usque pipilabat  .  .  . 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  8 1 

"  Pipilahat"  he  repeated  ;  "  does  n't  it  break 
your  heart  —  just  one  word — pipilabat.  O  Prin- 
cess !  you  are  very  wonderful,  but  you  are  not  so 
wonderful  as  a  word  like  that  .  .  .  you  are  not  so 
wonderful  as /z/)//«^«/  ..." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  am  not,"  said  the  Prin- 
cess, smiling;  "  and  I  am  the  more  certain,  as  I  will 
confess  that  I  am  no  scholar,  and  that  I  have  as 
little  idea  of  the  meaning  of  'pipilabat'  as  yonder 
crow  .  .  .  Tell  me  what  it  all  means,  you  wander- 
ing boy;  and,  if  you  will  only  sing  it  to  me,  I  will 
listen  .  .  .  Yes !  I  will  listen,  you  strange  boy,  as 
long  as  you  will  sing"  ;  and  she  laid  her  hand  lightly 
and  tenderly  upon  his  for  a  moment. 

**  You  are  very  gracious.  Princess,"  answered 
Rossignol,  "  but  it  is  preposterous  to  attempt  to 
put  such  words  into  any  other  tongue  .  .  .  you 
might  as  well  ask  me  to  translate  a  wild  rose. 
However,  I  will  do  the  little  that  I  can  " ;  and  Ros- 
signol took  up  his  lute  and  sang : 

Weep,  Mother  of  Love  !    Weep,  Baby-Boy  of  Arrows ! 

And  weep  all  men  that  have  a  tear  to  shed ! 
Because  —  alas !  —  the  sparrow  of  all  sparrows, 

The  sparrow  of  my  little  girl,  is  dead. 

O  it  was  sweet  to  hear  him  twitter-twitter 
In  the  dear  bosom  where  he  made  his  nest! 

Lesbia,  sweetheart,  who  shall  say  how  bitter 
This  grief  to  us  —  so  small  to  all  the  rest  ? 


82  Painted  Shadows 

For  Lesbia  loved  no  less  that  little  bird, 

Nor  less  was  loved,  than  mother  loves  her  daughter, 

Or  daughter  mother;  would  you  could  have  heard 
His  tiny  voice,  pretty  as  faUing  water ! 

And  in  no  other  bosom  would  he  sing, 

But  sometimes  sitting  here  and  sometimes  there, 

On  one  bough  and  another,  would  he  sing, — 
Faithful  to  Lesbia  —  as  I  am  to  her. 

He,  little  bird,  must  go,  as  go  the  flowers, 

Down  the  dark  road  by  which  no  man  returns ; 

O  curses  on  the  black  strength  that  devours 
The  beauty  of  life,  and  all  its  music  burns  ! 

Foul  shades  of  Orcus,  evil  you  befall ! 

'Tis  true  you  smote  her  little  sparrow  dead  — 
But  this  you  did  to  Lesbia  worse  than  all : 

You  made  her  eyes  with  weeping  —  O  so  red  ! 

"  I  would  you  were  not  so  much  in  love  with 
the  tinker's  niece  ..."  said  the  Princess,  as  he 
finished. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  "  asked  Rossignol. 

"Because,"  she  answered,  rising  and  making 
ready  to  return  to  her  castle  close  by  in  the  woods 
—  "because  I  am  inclined  to  think  you  might 
have  married  a  king's  daughter  ..." 

And  thereupon  she  left  him. 

"  A  king's  daughter !  "  said  Rossignol  to  him- 
self, still  only  half  awake.  "  What  could  she 
mean  .  .  .  anyhow,  it  is  no  matter:  for  am  I  not 
in  love  with  the  tinker's  niece?" 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  83 

"  Think  of  it,  lute,"  he  said,  as  he  once  more 
started  along  the  road.  "Think  of  it  —  we  are 
great  people,  after  all  .  .  .  we  might  have  married 
the  king's  daughter  .  .  . 

"  But,  ah !  "  he  added,  "  have  we  not  seen  the 
tinker's  niece  !  " 

"  It  is  a  sweet  life  we  lead,  you  and  I,"  said 
Rossignol  one  day  to  his  lute,  "  a  wonderful  life ! 
Do  you  think  we  are  quite  as  grateful  for  it  as  we 
ought  to  be?  Think  how  little  we  give  —  and  all 
they  give  us  in  exchange !  What  am  I  ?  Now 
look  at  me,  a  mere  imp  of  a  man,  one  half  rags 
and  the  other  half  wrinkles ;  —  and  come  now  .  .  . 
what  are  you?  ...  a  frail  shell  of  rather  cheap 
wood,  with  almost  all  your  varnish  rubbed  away, 
cracked  as  well  in  two  places,  and  subsisting  on 
charity  for  your  strings.  If  any  one  else  were  to 
play  upon  you  but  me  .  .  .  me,  with  these  fingers  " 
—  Rossignol's  fingers  were  his  only  personal  vani- 
ties—  "  me  too  with  my  love  .  .  .  Do  you  think  he 
would  be  able  to  wring  a  tune  out  of  you  .  .  .  but, 
ah !  "  he  added,  "  forgive  me,  little  brother,  my 
fingers  could  make  music  with  no  other  strings. 
We  are  neither  of  us  anything  without  each  other. 
I  could  play  upon  no  other  lute  — •  and  no  other 
musician  —  shall  we  say,  *  master  '  ?  —  could  play 
upon  you  .  .  .  Am  I  not  right? 


84  Painted  Shadows 

"  That  being  agreed  upon  between  us,"  Ros- 
signol  went  on  again,  "  I  mean  that  we  two  good- 
for-nothings,  of  no  value  apart,  are  able  in  our 
affectionate  combination,  with  no  trouble  in  the 
world,  indeed  with  the  mere  self-indulgence  of  our 
talents,  to  do  as  we  please,  and  heed  no  one's  bid- 
ding, having  stored  here  in  our  common  pouch  all 
the  gold  pieces  we  can  conveniently  carry,  and 
certainly  more  than  you  and  I  could  spend  in  a 
twelvemonth  .  .  . 

"  I  wonder  who  found  the  last  overflow,"  con- 
tinued Rossignol,  "  when  our  purse  was  so  full  that 
it  burst,  and  we  left  gold  pieces  lying  like  king- 
cups along  the  road.  I  wonder  who  found  them, 
and  what  they  did  with  them  .  .  ." 

"  Do  you  see  those  arrowheads  down  there  in 
the  stream?"  said  Rossignol,  presently.  "You 
and  I  have  time  enough  to  gather  them  if  we  care 
.  .  .  but  the  soldier  riding  post  may  not  stop,  and 
the  mail-coach  is  too  much  behind  time  already 
to  waste  any  time  upon  flowers.  Even  the  little 
stream,  leisurely  as  it  is,  must  go  on  .  .  .  only  you 
and  I,  my  lute,  may  sit  here  and  be  as  lazy  as  we 
please,  and  watch  the  clouds  moving  like  white 
cows  through  the  blue  pastures  of  heaven,  and  lis- 
ten, if  we  will,  to  yonder  bird  —  listen  to  it,  if  it 
sings  well  enough  —  and  long  enough,  till  the 
evening  star  .  .  .  Yes!  our  life  is  very  wonderful 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute!  85 

.  .  .  but  O  lute,  you  shall  sup  as  lute  never  supped 
before,  you  shall  drink  wine  as  old  and  fragrant  as 
if  it  had  been  drawn  from  the  foundations  of  the 
earth,  you  shall  sleep  in  a  bed  of  down,  with 
silk  curtains  woven  on  Flemish  looms,  and  your 
dreams  shall  be  as  sweet  as  a  meadow  of  daisies : 

—  if  only  ...  if  only  you  will  take  me  to  the  tink- 
er's niece !  " 

Day  after  day,  summer  and  winter,  Rossignol 
and  his  lute  walked  and  sang  together,  and  there 
was  no  foot  of  the  way  that  did  not  seem  to  them 
a  flower  with  kindness  and  wonder. 

And  it  was  not  only  by  his  singing  that  Ros- 
signol won  his  way.  There  was  something  good 
about  his  young-old  little  face,  something  that  took 
you  right  away  with  its  kindness.  You  could  n't 
say   that    it   was    beautiful  —  in    the   usual    sense 

—  but  there  was  something  about  it  that  made 
beautiful  faces  look  silly.  Besides,  he  seemed  to 
love  and  understand  everything  and  everybody. 
Nothing  ever  happened  but  he  knew  all  about  it, 
and  knew  the  only  thing  there  was  to  do ;  no  one 
ever  got  into  trouble  without  his  seeing  why :  see- 
ing, indeed,  that  there  was  nothing  else  for  him  to 
do  —  and  seeing  in  an  instant  the  way  out. 

He  was  indeed  almost  inhumanly  clever,  but 
one  was  compelled  to  remark  that  he  was  never 
clever  merely  for  himself. 


86  Painted  Shadows 

There  seemed  nothing  he  could  not  do.  Chal- 
lenged not  infrequently,  as  he  was,  to  conform  to 
the  foolish  excitements  of  the  world,  he  could,  in 
mere  child's  play,  do  so  marvellously  with  a  bor- 
rowed sword  —  for  he  had  none  of  his  own ;  being 
so  small  a  man,  his  lute  was  heavy  enough  —  that 
he  made  many  another  soldier  his  friend ;  and  he 
could  play  such  tricks  with  a  pack  of  cards  that  a 
whole  city  devoted  to  the  curing  of  hides,  and 
dumbly  indifferent  to  his  song,  begged  him  to  live 
there  for  ever. 

Once,  on  his  way,  he  came  upon  a  wandering 
clockmaker,  fast  asleep.  The  clockmaker's  cart 
was  drawn  under  the  hedge,  and  a  spirited  mongrel, 
fastened  to  it,  barked  an  alarm  at  his  sleeping 
master.  But  Rossignol  silenced  him  so  completely 
with  a  touch  of  his  hand  that  he  licked  his  fingers 
lavishly  in  token  of  friendship ;  for  Rossignol  had 
never  yet  met  with  dog,  cat,  or  horse  that  he  could 
not,  with  some  kindness  of  his  hands  or  some  friend- 
ship of  his  voice,  make  his  devoted  slave. 

The  clockmaker's  dog  was  evidently  wild  for  a 
run  among  the  possible  game  of  the  adjacent  fields, 
for  there  was  a  strain  of  an  old  hunting  grandsire 
in  his  lowly  blood,  and,  seeing  that  the  clockmaker 
was  not  likely  to  awake  for  some  time,  Rossignol 
released  the  poor  soul,  and  applied  himself  to  an 
old   clock  with  a  pretty  engraved  face,  which  it 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  '^j 

was   evident  the  clockmaker  had  been  trying  to 
mend  as  he  had  fallen  asleep. 

Very  soon  Rossignol,  delighting  in  all  its  deli- 
cate mechanism,  had  started  the  old  clock  ticking 
again;  and,  wondering  why  anybody  should  care 
to  keep  time,  he  went  upon  his  way. 

He  was  a  friend,  too,  of  all  the  children  along 
the  roads.  When  some  tired  mother  had  given  up 
her  querulous  infant  in  despair,  he  would  take  it  in 
his  arms,  and  in  a  few  moments  put  it  to  sleep 
with  a  soothing  murmur  mysteriously  his  own,  — 
or  with  the  sprightly  imitation  of  some  homely 
animal,  so  entertaining  that  the  child's  thoughts 
were  diverted  from  its  sorrow. 

And  so  the  years  went  by,  and  the  people  along 
the  roads  began  to  understand  that  the  odd  little 
vagabond  with  his  kind  eyes  and  his  sweet  voice, 
and  that  old  lute  of  his,  was  what  is  known  as  a 
great  man.  There  was  hardly  any  need  for  him 
to  sing  his  songs  himself,  as  he  passed  along,  for 
mothers  sang  them  to  their  children,  and  lovers 
sang  them  to  each  other;  indeed,  the  very  birds 
sang  them  from  the  trees.  Jacobus  Rossignol  and 
his  lute  became  at  length  so  famous  that  univer- 
sities met  him  with  laurel  as  he  entered  the  city 
gates,  dusty  from  the  road,  and  with  the  same  old 
lute  on  his  arm,  and  made  him  Doctor  of  Laws  in 
spite  of  his  old  clothes. 


88  Painted  Shadows 

Kings  invited  him  to  make  his  home  at  their 
courts,  and  sometimes  he  smiled  to  himself  as  he 
thought  of  that  king's  daughter. 

But  fame  had  no  power  over  his  simplicity. 

The  world  had  still  nothing  more  to  give  him 
than  it  gave  the  night  his  father  cast  him  out-of- 
doors.  And,  speaking  of  his  father  —  well !  the 
lute  he  had  used  so  despitefully  had  long  since 
made  him  so  rich  and  at  ease  in  the  world,  that 
the  village  of  Twelvetrees  had  proved  too  small 
for  him,  and  his  mere  stables  resembled  a  village. 

His  son  knew  life  too  well  to  feel  any  triumph 
over  the  old  man  in  all  this,  and,  in  every  way  he 
could,  he  tried  to  persuade  him  that  if  he  had 
not  shot  him  through  the  door  that  night,  he  would 
never  have  been  a  real  poet  at  all. 

"  I  needed  to  face  the  world  for  myself,  dear 
father,"  he  said,  "  and  I  knew  nothing  about  it  till 
that  night.  Indeed,  I  never  even  knew  that  the 
moon  was  so  beautiful  till  you  threw  me  out  into 
the  moonlight  ..." 

But,  for  all  his  honours,  Rossignol  and  his  lute 
continued  their  simple  way  about  the  world. 
Rossignol  gave  his  money  day  by  day  to  the 
poor,  reserving  no  more  for  himself  than  sufficed 
for  food  and  clothes  and  lodging,  and  an  occa- 
sional new  string  for  his  lute ;  and  still,  as  when  a 
boy,  he   could  not  be  persuaded  that  the  world 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute  !  89 

could    give    him    anything    better    worth    having 
than: 

The  Spring, 

A  Hawthorn  in  Blossom, 

A  Copy  of  Catullus, 

An  Old  Lute, 
and  —  The  Face  of  the  Tinker's  Niece. 

But,  though  he  tramped  many  a  dusty  road, 
and  read  Catullus  under  many  a  vernal  bush,  he 
looked  in  vain  for  that  little  rusty  cavalcade.  O, 
to  hear  again  the  clanking  of  those  pots  and  pans ! 
O  again  to  be  pitched  headlong  into  the  fern ! 
But  it  was  fated  that  Rossignol  should  never  see 
or  hear  those  pots  and  pans  again ;  and  only  by 
accident  in  one  of  his  wanderings  did  he  at  last 
come  upon  the  tinker's  niece,  as  she  was  starting 
on  a  long  journey. 

Rossignol  was  still  quite  a  boy  to  look  at,  and 
indeed  the  years  had  perhaps  seemed  more  and 
longer  to  him  than  to  other  people  —  for  other, 
wiser,  people  had  so  many  things  to  do.  He  had 
been  doing  nothing  all  this  time  but  walk  through 
the  lanes,  looking  for  the  tinker's  niece.  He  had 
seemed  to  be  looking  for  her  for  years  upon  years  ; 
though  actually  she  was  little  more  than  a  woman 
when  he  saw  her  for  the  last  time  suddenly  one 
morning,  all  covered  with  flowers,  in  a  little 
churchyard — just  as  he  and  his  lute  were  going 


90  Painted  Shadows 

by,  without  a  thought  of  his  coming  upon  her  hke 
that. 

There  were  sad  voices  and  solemn  music  about 
her,  as  Rossignol  entered  the  churchyard  gate 
with  a  strange  sinking  of  the  heart.  Gently  mak- 
ing his  way  through  the  dark  crowd,  Rossignol 
caught  sight  once  more  of  her  lovely  face  —  but 
her  eyes  were  fast  closed,  and  her  brow  was 
wreathed  with  lilies  .  .  . 

"At  last  ..."  he  cried  out,  in  a  voice  that 
made  the  mourners  stand  still  in  astonishment, 
"At  last  ..." 

And  then,  standing  as  one  with  authority  by  the 
bier,  he  turned  to  the  priest,  taking  his  lute  in  his 
hands,  and  thus  asserting  himself,  httle  man,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  modest  life.  "  Your  pardon. 
Father,  "  he  said,  "  but  I  am  the  poet.  Jacobus 
Rossignol,  I  love  this  lady;  and  either  I  will 
sing  her  awake  again,  or  I  and  my  lute  shall  be 
buried  in  her  grave." 

So  sudden  and  strange  was  his  apparition,  that 
his  hands  were  on  the  strings  and  his  voice  among 
the  words  before  any  one  had  thought  of  hinder- 
ing him;  and,  so  soon  as  he  began  to  sing,  no 
one  had  a  thought  except  for  his  song= — and  his 
sorrow. 

"  Poor  soul,"  said  one  under  his  breath,  "  his 
grief  has  broken  his  heart." 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute!  91 

And  this  was  the  song  that  Rossignol  sang  to 
the  tinker's  niece,  as  she  lay  with  closed  eyes 
among  the  Hlies : 

This  is  my  lady  —  pray  you  wait  awhile 
Before  you  lock  such  beauty  underground. 

Shut  in  this  dungeon  that  immortal  smile, 
And  plunder  music  of  its  sweetest  sound. 

This  is  my  lady  !     Ah  !  I  never  told 

All  that  I  dare  speak  now  that  she  is  dead  ; 

This  is  my  lady  !     She  who  lies  so  cold, 

White  as  the  flowers  that  wither  on  her  head. 

This  is  my  lady  !     She  will  never  know 

How  my  heart  breaks  because  my  heart  is  hers ; 
I  am  the  nightingale,  —  she  was  the  rose  ! 

0  give  me  leave  to  sing  to  her,  fair  sirs  ! 

Ah  !  rose  untimely  smitten  of  the  cold, 

1  bring  my  burning  lute  afire  with  spring,  — 
So  young  't  would  turn  to  blossom  faces  old  ! 

For  thee  to  listen  —  scarce  is  need  to  sing! 

Love,  sleeping  on  with  such  a  silent  air  — 
Awake,  for  all  the  land  is  flower  and  bird  ; 

What  dost  thou,  little  sluggard,  sleeping  there, 

Sleeping  as  sound  as  though  thou  hadst  not  heard ! 

O  raise  thy  head  !  —  or,  if  too  weary  thou, 

Open  thine  eyes,  and  nod  a  little  smile, 
And  in  my  arms,  ah  !  love,  I  'U  take  thee  now 

And  carry  thee  to  God  each  shining  mile. 

But  the  tinker's  niece  lay  there  as  if  she  had 
heard  no  word    of  the  song  that  made  the  tears 


92 


Painted  Shadows 


stream   from   all   other   eyes   in    the   churchyard 
except  hers. 

"  It  is  strange  that  she  should  sleep  like  this," 
said  Rossignol  to  himself,  "  She  cannot  have 
heard  my  voice.  I  will  sing  to  her  my  song  of 
The  Comifig  of  Spring,  and  then  surely,  when  she 
remembers  the  gladness  of  the  green  world,  she 
will  awake."  And  taking  up  his  lute  once  more, 
Rossignol  sang: 

Heart,  have  you  heard  the  news  ? 

The  Spring  has  come  back  —  have  you  heard? 
With  little  green  shoot  and  little  pink  bud,  and  the  httle 

new-hatched  bird. 
And  the  Rose  —  yes  !  yes !  the  Rose  — 

Nightingale,  have  you  heard  the  news? 
The  Rose  has  come  back  and  the  green  and  the  blue, 

And  everything  is  as  new  as  the  dew  — 
New  nightingale,  new  rose. 

Wind  of  the  east,  flower-footed  breeze, 

O  take  my  love  to  the  budding  trees. 
To  the  cypress  take  it,  and  take  it,  too. 

To  the  tender  nurslings  of  meadows  and  leas, 
To  the  basil  take  it,  messenger  breeze. 

And  I  send  it,  my  love,  to  you. 

O  April  skies ! 
The  Winter  's  done, 

O  April  skies  1 
The  Spring 's  begun  ! 

And  honey-humming 
Summer 's  coming  — 

O  April  skies  I 


Poet,  Take  thy  Lute!  93 

But  the  tinker's  niece  lay  there  in  her  shroud 
of  flowers,  and  never  stirred,  and  the  priests  and 
the  mourners  looked  on  at  the  strange  grief  of 
Rossignol,  ignorantly  awed, 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Rossignol,  and  he  stood 
pondering  in  silence  a  long  time. 

Then  again  he  spoke  : 

"  Perhaps  it  is  her  will  to  sleep,"  he  said ;  "  per- 
haps she  is  weary  and  would  rest  .  .  .  Let  us  not 
call  her  again,  my  lute ;  let  us  rather  sing  low  to 
her,  that  she  may  indeed  sleep  ..." 

And,  taking  his  lute  in  his  hands  for  the  last 
time,  Rossignol  sang  softly  this  lullaby  of  death : 

Vain,  all  in  vain !     O  Love,  thou  dost  not  hear  ; 

Thou  art  too  lost  in  sleep  to  wake  again  ; 
In  vain  my  song,  in  vain  the  falling  tear. 
Vain,  all  in  vain  I 

She  will  not  wake  again  till  Gabriel  sings  ; 

For  any  mortal  music  we  can  make, 
My  lute  and  I,  with  these  heart-broken  strings, 
She  will  not  wake. 

Sleep  then,  ah !  sleep  —  if  slumber  be  thy  will ; 

We  would  not  vex  thee,  though  we  needs  must  weep 
Of  slumber  everlasting  take  thy  fill  — 
Sleep  then,  ah  !  sleep. 

As  he  finished  his  song,  Rossignol  bent  his 
head  over  his  breast,  and  burst  into  tears.  Then, 
gaining  command  of  himself,  he  stood  up  before 


94  Painted  Shadows 

the  people,  and  turning  to  that  grim  uncle  whom 
he  loved  now  because  he  had  thrown  him  among 
the  ferns  — 

"Will  you  do  this  for  me?"  he  said.  "Will 
you  bury  my  lute  with  her  ...  for  what  to  me  is 
the  music  she  cannot  hear?  " 

And  as  Rossignol  left  the  churchyard  in  a 
dream,  he  laughed  sadly  to  himself: 

"  O  my  lute  —  my  lute  !  We  were  nothing, 
after  all !  " 


THE   WANDERING   HOME 


THE   WANDERING  HOME 


THE  wandering  home !  The  expression, 
you  will  say,  is  paradoxical.  Is  it  not 
of  the  essence  of  home  that  it  is  rooted, 
stable,  always  snug  with  welcome  and  peace  in 
the  same  green  corner  of  the  earth?  That  is  what 
home  means.  I  know  —  and,  perhaps,  fortunately 
for  themselves,  that  is  how  most  people  think 
of  home.  Well,  it  is  a  question  of  temperament, 
like  so  much  else  in  life. 

For  the  average,  or,  if  you  prefer,  the  normal 
temperament,  the  world  seems  insecure  unless 
it  has  assured  for  itself,  by  irrefragable  legal  hold- 
fasts, a  lifelong  anchorage  in  the  treacherous 
stream  of  existence.  If  it  is  able  to  assure  the 
continuance  of  this  anchored  safety  to  those  that 
come  after  it,  and  if,  too,  it  should  happen  itself 
to  have  inherited  it  from  those  that  went  before, 
its  sense  of  security  is  as  the  roots  of  the  moun- 
tains. The  ideal  home  of  such  a  temperament 
seems  typified  by  those  old  country  houses  one 
often  sees  in  America,  where  the  family  graveyard 

7 


98  Painted  Shadows 

is  attached  to  the  house,  an  extension  of  the 
garden.  The  poetry  of  the  ideal  is  indisputable. 
It  vividly  and  appeaHngly  concentrates  all  that 
we  mean  by  the  family  sentiment  —  the  conception 
of  men  and  women  not  in  units,  nor  even  in  pairs, 
nor  yet  even  in  single  households  of  parents  and 
children,  but  rather  in  clusters  of  such  households 
radiating  from  one  original  root  of  home  —  the 
sentiment  of  the  clan. 

There,  just  beyond  the  garden,  lie  the  strong 
builders  of  the  home,  the  old  men  of  iron,  and 
the  beautiful  old  grandmothers.  They  have  done 
their  work,  and  they  take  their  rest,  while  the 
young  folk  go  on  with  the  work  in  the  old  house. 
But,  though  they  are  dead,  they  still  belong  to 
the  home,  familiar  presences  that  still  have  their 
say  in  living  affairs — waking  up,  as  it  were,  now 
and  again,  to  say  a  strong,  wise  word  on  occasion, 
and  then  to  sleep  again.  Yes,  in  death  they  are 
still  at  home.  They  have  not  been  sent  away, 
numbered  exiles,  to  some  Siberia  of  the  dead. 
They  lie  safe  within  the  circuit  of  the  warm  walls 
they  built,  and  in  the  dark  nights  the  home  lights 
stream  across  their  graves.  And  sometimes,  as 
their  children  read  over  their  names  on  the  crooked 
tombstones,  it  makes  them  feel,  as  we  say,  more 
"  at  home  in  the  world,"  to  realize  that  when  they 
themselves  die,  they  too  will  go  on  thus  belonging 


The  Wandering  Home  99 

to  the   old  home,  and  not  wander  hke  orphaned 
ghosts  in  the  shadowy  land. 

This  is  the  way  of  one  temperament.  Perhaps 
the  majority  of  people  feel  like  that.  It  is  the 
way  of  another  temperament,  a  temperament  fun- 
damentally different,  that  I  am  now  concerned  to 
present. 

To  this  other  temperament,  that  sense  of  rooted- 
ness,  of  anchorage,  in  the  world  which  is  so  assur- 
ing and  consoling  to  the  first  temperament,  is  one 
to  inspire  it  with  feelings  almost  precisely  the 
reverse,  feelings  little  short  of  terror.  To  this 
temperament  the  signing  of  a  lease  seems  like  the 
signing  of  a  death  warrant.  It  brings  one  so  ap- 
pallingly face  to  face  with  the  Last  Fact  of  exist- 
ence. Even  a  short  lease,  after  one  has  turned 
thirty,  is  sufficient  to  inspire  this  feeling.  Say  it  is 
only  for  seven  years.  Say  you  are  thirty-five. 
When  the  lease  is  out,  you  will  be  forty-two.  An- 
other seven  years'  lease  will  bring  you  to  the  thresh- 
old of  fifty.  A  third  brings  you  to  fifty-six,  a 
fourth  to  sixty-three,  and  a  fifth  to  —  threescore 
years  and  ten !  And  the  odds  are  that  two  of 
those  leases  you  will  never  sign. 

Or  you  may  reflect  to  yourself  something  after 
this  manner :  To-day,  when  I  sign  this  lease,  I  may 
still  call  myself  a  young  man  —  though  really 
young  people  would  n't  call  me  so.     At  all  events, 


lOO  Painted  Shadows 

there  is  yet  a  little  of  the  cake  of  youth  remaining. 
By  the  time  this  lease  has  run  out  it  will  be  eaten 
to  its  last  crumb.  To-day  my  little  daughter  is 
still  a  child.  By  the  time  this  lease  has  run  out 
she  will  be  a  woman.  To-day  my  hair  still  passes 
for  brown.  By  the  time  this  lease  has  run  out  it 
will  be  frankly  gray.  People  will  say :  **  O  lots 
of  young  people  have  gray  hair !  "  Yes  !  but  the 
lease  is  up,  and  you  know  you  are  not  young  any 
more,  and  will  not  be  young  again  for  ever. 

It  is  thoughts  like  these  that  run  shiveringly 
through  some  of  us  as  we  sign  a  lease,  and  faith- 
fully promise  a  landlord,  under  sundry  pains  and 
penalties,  to  live  in  the  same  house,  cultivate  the 
same  plot  of  garden,  walk  the  same  streets,  catch 
the  same  trains,  for  no  less  than  seven  out  of  the 
few  years  left  us ;  seven  —  with  an  option  of  re- 
newal to  fourteen  or  twenty-one.  You  see  plainly 
whose  are  the  features  of  the  grim  lawyer,  and  you 
see  the  smile  on  them,  as  you  set  your  finger  on 
the  little  red  seal  and  declare  this  your  act  and 
deed. 

Yes,  you  have  promised  to  live  in  the  same 
house  for  seven  years.  For  seven  years  that  might 
have  been  packed  so  full  of  experiment  and  ex- 
perience, you  have  promised  to  do  the  same  thing. 
The  gong  will  sound  for  meals  every  day  at  the 
same   hours.     You   will    walk   at  the  same  hour. 


The  Wandering  Home  loi 

You  will  sit  and  read  at  the  same  hour.  The  only- 
change  will  be  in  the  servants,  and  the  only  con- 
solation that  you  are  treading  the  same  round  with 
—  the  same  woman. 

I  would  not  be  misunderstood  as  writing  un- 
graciously of  this  sameness  in  mortal  things.  Life 
is,  and  must  be,  made  up  of  the  same  things.  But 
the  art  of  life  is  to  make  ourselves  forget  that  they 
are  the  same  things  —  the  art,  and  the  problem. 
Nor  is  it,  indeed,  that  we  would  change  these 
same  things  for  other  things.  The  burden  of 
sameness  is  not  in  the  things  themselves,  but 
rather  in  the  monotony  of  their  arrangement.  The 
ingredients  of  the  same  old  dish  are  excellent,  but 
the  cook  lacks  versatility.  All  that  is  needed  is 
the  transforming  touch  of  that  "  perpetual  slight 
novelty,"  which  Keats  declared  to  be  characteristic 
of  true  poetry.  That  the  spring  always  brings  the 
same  flowers  and  the  same  birds  is  not  matter  for 
this  complaint,  for  they  never  seem  the  same ;  or 
that  the  face  of  a  friend  should  always  look  the 
same,  in  spite  of  the  years ;  or  that  those  who 
loved  us  once  should  go  on  loving  us  just  the 
same.  These  carry  within  them  that  perennial 
freshness  which  is  the  essence  of  novelty.  Perhaps 
one  can  illustrate  the  kind  of  novelty  of  which 
some  of  us  are  in  constant  need  by  a  compara- 
tively trivial  comparison.     Take  the  arrangement 


102  Painted  Shadows 

of  the  pictures  in  one's  room.  They  are,  we  will 
say,  all  good  pictures,  pictures  which  wear  well, 
and  not  merely  brilliant  or  sensational  memoranda 
of  past  moods  of  choice.  They  are  deep  wells  of 
beauty,  the  bottom  of  which  we  have  never  seen, 
nor  will  ever  see.  Yet  there  are  times  when  they 
seem  to  be  failing  us.  It  almost  seems  as  if  they 
have  given  us  all  they  had  to  give.  We,  perhaps, 
fancy  that  they  are  worn  out.  We  need  new 
pictures.  The  truth,  however,  is  that  we  have 
grown  weary,  not  of  the  pictures  themselves,  but 
of  their  arrangement.  If  we  move  them  about  a 
little,  set  them  in  unaccustomed  lights,  hang  them 
in  other  rooms,  we  shall  suddenly  find  all  their 
freshness  back  again,  and  come  upon  them  from 
time  to  time  with  quite  a  thrilling  shock  of  novelty. 

The  image  is  homely  and  limited,  and  by  no 
means  covers  all  the  ground.  It  may  serve  to 
illustrate  the  burden  of  the  sameness  of  things,  but 
it  does  not  touch  that  terror  of  securely  invested 
repose  and  reiteration  which  is  a  veritable  bugbear 
of  some  natures  —  the  wild  dread  of  being  "  settled 
down." 

To  be  "  comfortably  settled  in  life  "  is  the  very 
proper  aim  of  most  men  and  women,  and  so  far  as 
the  term  merely  refers  to  a  secure  income,  even 
the  most  incorrigible  world-wanderer  will  not  find 
fault  with  it.     The  complaint  is   not  of  a   settled 


The  Wandering  Home  103 

income,  but  of  having  to  spend  it  in  certain  settled 
ways  and  in  certain  settled  conditions.  When  we 
say  that  a  ship  is  settling  down,  we  mean  that  she  will 
sail  the  seas  no  more,  no  more  feel  the  adventurous 
wind  in  her  sails,  touch  no  more  strange  islands, 
nor  steer  her  course  again  by  unfamiliar  stars.  So 
with  a  man  when  he  signs  the  long  lease.  He  is 
done  with  experiment.  His  adventures  are  over. 
The  sea  is  wide  and  shimmering  about  him.  Mys- 
terious ports  call  him  from  behind  the  setting  sun. 
But  no  !  his  saihng  days  are  over.  He  is  settling 
down ! 

Now  the  problem  for  this  wild  bird  that  dreads 
the  cage,  this  nomad  that  hates  the  immovable 
roof,  is :  How  so  to  order  his  days  that  they  may 
present  the  illusion  of  that  perpetual  slight  novelty, 
and  not  hint  too  loudly  of  their  swift  passing  away. 

A  skilful  gardener,  as  we  know,  can  so  cunningly 
arrange  his  trees  and  lawns,  and  wind  about  his 
walks  in  so  illusive  a  fashion,  that  even  a  few  acres 
may  be  filled  with  surprises,  and  you  can  walk  in 
and  out  for  quite  a  long  time  without  suspecting 
how  small  is  the  garden.  So  with  life,  the  prob- 
lem is  to  hide  the  end  of  the  garden,  to  make- 
believe  it  is  a  never-ending  pleasaunce,  and  never  to 
hint  at  the  stranger  waiting  by  the  iron  gate  that 
opens  into  the  haunted  wilderness  outside. 

This,  you  will  perceive,  is  a  very  different  view 


I04  Painted  Shadows 

from  that  of  those  old  American  settlers  who  liked 
to  think  of  the  graveyard  at  the  end  of  the  garden  ; 
but  it  must  not  be  confused  with  a  morbid  or 
cowardly  fear  of  death.  The  Wanderer  I  am 
thinking  of  does  not  fear  death  as  death  —  he  only 
fears  its  shrinking  influence  upon  life.  To  him 
and  to  natures  like  his,  the  memento  mori  does  not 
so  much  quicken  the  pace  of  his  living  by  its 
warning  to  make  the  most  of  existence.  Rather  is 
it  apt  to  make  him  say:  "With  so  short  a  time  to 
do  anything  in,  it  is  hardly  worth  doing  anything 
at  all ;  with  so  short  a  time  to  be  happy  in,  it  is 
hardly  worth  while  beginning  to  enjoy." 

There  is  in  all  significant  human  acts  an  indefin- 
able implication  of  eternity.     We  involuntarily  do 
our  work  with,  one  might  say,  an  almost  instinctive 
sense  of  its  being  somehow  or  other  immortally 
important.     The  feeling  is  not  in  any  sense   rea- 
soned.    Reasoning  may  easily  dissipate  it.     But  it 
is  none  the  less  there.    And  we  enter  into  our  joys 
with  the  same  gusto  of  immortality.     One  of  the 
reasons  for  the  conquering  force  of  youth   is  its 
buoyant  possession  of  this  motive  sense.     Death 
has  not  yet  entered  into  its  calculations.     As  life 
advances,  however,  death  is  seen  to  be  something 
more  than  the  old  wives'  tale  we  had  thought  it. 
It  may  well  be  that  we  misunderstand  death.    This 
sense   of  immortal   impulse   in    human   action  of 


The  Wandering  Home  105 

which  I  have  been  writing  may  very  well  mean 
that  immortal  significance  it  seems  to  mean.  If 
so,  it  is  the  more  important  for  us  to  resist  the 
blighting  influence  on  life  of  our  very  natural  mis- 
interpretation of  death.  Maybe  death  is  not  an 
end,  but  one  more  radiant  beginning.  It  does  not, 
however,  wear  that  aspect  as  year  by  year  we  ap- 
proach nearer  to  it,  and,  therefore,  it  is  all  to  the 
good  of  efficient  living  that  we  meditate  as  little  as 
possible  on  our  latter  end. 

Now  for  the  temperament  which  for  the  moment 
I  represent,  there  is  no  more  insistent  reminder  of 
that  latter  end  than  the  rooted,  long-leased  home. 
Even  amid  all  the  June  glories  of  the  distinguished 
old  garden,  the  warm  reassurance  of  the  passion- 
ate summer  air,  the  Wanderer  shivers  as  the  cold 
thought  takes  him  of  the  unchanging  stretched- 
out  days,  and  of  that  last  inevitable  day  when, 
with  the  hushed  pomp  of  mourners,  he  shall  pass 
out  through  the  Georgian  doorway,  across  the  vil- 
lage green,  to  the  dull  old  churchyard.  It  is  ter- 
rible to  be  quite  certain  where  you  will  die.  The 
certainty  makes  you  feel  something  like  dead  al- 
ready : 

"  And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment 
With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action." 


io6  Painted  Shadows 


/ 


II 

The  Wanderer  had  felt  all  this  very  restlessly,  and 
so  had  the  Wanderer's  Wife  —  for  what  a  mistake 
it  is  to  think  that  woman  is  the  born  Stay-at- 
Home  !  The  Wanderer  and  the  Wanderer's  Wife 
loved  each  other  with  all  their  hearts  —  and  both 
their  heads.  Nature  had  made  them  nomads; 
but  nature,  too,  had  made  it  impossible  for  them  to 
wander  long  or  far  from  each  other. 

They  had  been  married  now  for  nearly  twelve 
years,  and  yet  it  was  plain  truth,  and  no  smug 
platitude  for  social  publication,  that  their  love 
was  as  young  and  fresh  as  ever.  They  had 
never  bored  each  other  for  five  minutes.  The 
stress  of  so  many  years  of  life  had  so  far  failed  to 
reveal  any  serious  lack  of  harmony  between  them. 
Nature  had  evidently  selected  them  with  great  care 
for  each  other  —  but  they  had  been  wise,  too,  and 
skilfully  seconded  nature  with  that  tact  of  loving  for 
lack  of  which  too  many  unions  equally  well  planned 
by  nature  fail  of  success. 

"  One  needs  to  be  clever,  as  well  as  devoted,  to 
love  successfully,"  the  Wanderer's  Wife  was  fond  of 
saying.  "  Love,  particularly  married  love,  is  the 
most  difficult  of  the  fine  arts.     Love  needs  enor- 


The  Wandering  Home  107 

mous  taking  care  of — needs  amusement,  distrac- 
tion, and  perpetual  refreshment." 

There  was,  of  course,  nothing  particularly  new 
about  this  wisdom.  It  was  the  success  and  the 
novelty  of  its  application  that  gave  significance  to 
the  words ;  and  it  was,  indeed,  no  small  success  for 
two  such  natures  to  have  been  married  for  so  long, 
and  yet  to  have  retained  the  precious  sense  of  vista, 
the  salt  of  adventure,  in  their  lives.  All  the  secur- 
ity they  felt  the  need  of  was  in  the  deep  sense  and 
tried  knowledge  of  their  love.  They  did  not  feel 
the  need  of  daily  monotony  to  make  them  sure  of 
the  stability  of  their  marriage  bond,  nor  did  they 
conceive  marriage  as  a  state  in  which  two  people 
never  take  their  eyes  off  each  other.  They  were, 
indeed,  mysteriously  two  in  one,  yet  they  remained 
two  as  well,  two  separate  beings,  with  the  need 
occasionally  of  separate  atmospheres  to  breathe  in. 
They  were  blissfully  married,  but,  at  the  same 
time,   blessedly  single. 

"  The  first  thing  to  remember  in  marriage,"  the 
Wanderer's  Wife  would  say,  "  is  that,  talking  with- 
out cant,  each  one  has  needs  in  life  besides  the 
other.  These  needs  may  be  pleasures  that  the 
other  cannot  share,  or  they  may  be  simple,  inno- 
cent habits  or  personal  methods,  with  which  mar- 
riage so  often  disastrously  and  stupidly  interferes  — 
such  as  the  need,  say,  of  a  silent  hour  alone  or  of 


io8  Painted  Shadows 

a  solitary  walk.  The  truest  lovers  must  occasion- 
ally get  on  each  other's  nerves  —  that  is  why  a 
large  house  is  wisest  for  love  to  live  in,  and  why 
love  in  a  cottage  seldom  succeeds.  Then,  while 
one  of  the  true  delights  you  marry  for  is  that  of 
doing  things  together,  there  are  times  when  a  cer- 
tain impatience  of  this  perpetual  duality  of  all  our 
actions  is  to  be  feared,  and  an  irresistible  restless- 
ness to  do  something  for  and  all  by  oneself — 
just  as  when  one  was  a  girl  or  boy  —  comes  over 
us.  For  once  not  to  have  to  share,  for  once  not  to 
have  our  httle  adventures  companioned  even  by 
the  most  sympathetic  companion  !  For  once  to 
be  allowed  to  forget  that  there  is  such  a  being  even 
as  the  best  husband  in  the  world  !  " 

This,  no  doubt,  had  an  heretical  sound  for  some 
ears,  but  the  experienced  ones  conceded  the  wis- 
dom of  the  Wanderer's  Wife,  and  the  well-known 
success  of  her  principles  in  practice  silenced 
criticism. 

The  Wanderer  and  his  Wife  attributed  much  of 
their  happiness  to  the  fact  that  they  seldom  lived 
for  long  in  the  same  place.  Their  constancy  was 
largely  due  to  the  stimulus  of  change,  and  the 
freshness  of  their  love  largely  came  of  the  freshness 
which  was  thus  maintained  in  their  own  natures. 
Through  the  windows  of  their  house  of  life  fresh 
currents  of  air  were  continually  pouring,  and  when 


The  Wandering  Home  109 

the  aspect  from  one  window  weaned  they  turned 
to  another.  In  fact,  their  house  of  life  should 
rather  be  described  as  a  tent  pitched  according  to 
their  mood,  now  in  one  latitude,  now  in  another  — 
so  to  say,  the  portable  pied-a-terre  of  two  fellow 
pilgrims,  who  sought  the  elixir  of  youth  in  com- 
pany and  felt  that  they  had  found  it  with  every 
new  experience,  or  every  rejuvenation  of  an  old 
one. 

Two  children  had  been  born  to  the  Wanderers. 
The  girl,  Pervenche,  with  her  deep  forest  eyes,  the 
colour  of  which  no  man  could  tell,  and  her  little  nut- 
shaped  face,  half  hidden  between  the  big,  brown 
foliage  of  her  hair,  was  now  ten  —  she  was  already 
a  woman  in  fairy-land  —  and  the  boy,  Asra,  with 
his  northern  blue  eyes  and  obstinately  curling 
gold  hair,  was  eight. 

As  you  would  expect,  heads  were  sometimes 
shaken  over  the  effect  upon  these  young  lives  of 
the  Wandering  Home.  "  No  home-life,  poor  dar- 
lings," had  been  said  of  them.  Such  is  the  super- 
ficial wisdom  of  the  ignorant.  Pervenche  and  Asra 
knew  better.  Instead  of  one  home,  with  one  play- 
room, they  had  homes  and  playrooms  all  over  the 
world,  with  an  ever-changing  succession  of  toys. 
Instead  of  only  feeling  at  home  in  one  little  corner 
of  one  little  town,  or  one  little  village  of  an  earth 
glittering  with  strange  cities,  and  teeming  with  towns 


no  Painted  Shadows 

as  stars  in  the  sky,  and  villages  as  sand  on  the  sea- 
shore, their  young  imaginations  were  already  at 
home  in  a  hundred  distant  places,  and  their  young 
memories  already  stored  with  travel  pictures  from 
half  the  planet.  Homeless !  Why,  if  ever  two 
children  felt  at  home  in  the  world,  it  was  Pervenche 
and  Asra,  for,  wherever  they  went,  the  world  was 
like  a  new  picture-book,  with  the  wisest  and  most 
loving  father  and  mother  to  turn  over  its  pages  and 
tell  them  its  meaning.  Instead,  too,  of  growing 
up  prejudiced  little  provincials,  they  were  already 
qualifying  to  be  citizens  of  every  nation,  and,  in- 
stead of  merely  having  friends  who  lived  in  just 
the  same  sort  of  houses  as  they  did,  and  talked  the 
same  language  and  wore  the  same  clothes,  they 
already  numbered  dear  friends  who  called  them 
the  prettiest  pet  names  in  French  and  Italian  — 
and  perhaps  the  dearest  friend  they  ever  had  was 
a  tiny  little  gentleman  who  used  to  tell  them 
the  beautiful  names  of  things  in  Japanese.  Many 
Httle  children  would  have  called  these  people 
"  foreigners,"  but  Asra  and  Pervenche  would  not 
have  understood.  "  Foreigners"  ?  No,  they  were 
friends.  So  much  for  the  place  of  the  child  in  the 
Wandering  Home. 


The  Wandering  Home  1 1 1 


III 

The  Wanderer  and  his  Wife  were  standing  on  their 
little  roof-garden  right  away  at  the  top  of  one  of 
those  fortresses  which  in  New  York  they  call  apart- 
ment houses.  In  Italy  they  would  be  called  cam- 
panili,  or  some  other  name  more  appropriate  to 
their  beautiful,  soaring  strength. 

It  was  the  close  of  a  brilliant  January  day,  and 
the  sun  was  setting  as,  to  some  of  us  it  seems,  it 
can  only  set  over  New  York,  in  a  glory  of  grim 
towers  and  city  smoke,  a  tumbled  beauty,  formless, 
unconventional,  yet  sternly  impressive.  From 
where  they  stood,  turning  to  right  and  left, 
they  could  see  the  North  and  the  East  Rivers 
gleaming  at  the  ends  of  their  embattled  street 
Silhouetted  rigging  now  and  again  stood  out  for  a 
moment  against  the  gleam,  passing  slowly  out  to 
sea.  The  infinite  freshness  of  the  Atlantic  swept 
up  over  the  vast  towers,  already  peopled  with  lights. 
Cressets  and  sky-signs  began  to  fill  the  dusk  with 
fiery  writing.  Up  Sixth  Avenue  the  elevated  rail- 
way moved  like  a  magic  lantern-slide,  and  out  of 
the  deepening  night  far  sea-horns  called  home- 
lessly,  homelessly. 

"  This  is  New  York,"  said  the  Wanderer's  Wife, 


112  Painted  Shadows 

as  they  stood  hushed  on  their  tower,  "  It  is  so 
beautiful  —  I  wonder  why  we  should  ever  want  to 
live  anywhere  else." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  the  Wanderer,  and  after  a  pause 
he  added  :  "  But  we  do.  Do  you  hear  the  wander- 
ing horns  calling  us  out  there: 

•' '  Where  shall  we  wander? ' 

Said  he  and  she. 
'  O  anywhere  yonder, 
Anywhere  yonder, 

Out  to  sea.' 

"But  where  shall  we  wander  this  time,  child?" 
he  continued,  "  for  I  feel  your  wings  already  beat- 
ing for  flight." 

*'  Yes  !  to  which  of  our  homes  shall  we  wander  ?  " 
said  the  wife,  laughing.  •'  I  know  it 's  preposterous 
at  the  time  of  the  year,  but  I  've  got  a  sudden 
homesickness  for  the  dear  old  face  of  Madame 
Henriot.     I  wonder  how  she  is." 

Madame  Henriot  was  the  old  lady  who  looked 
after  their  little  pied-a-terre  in  Paris,  and,  as  the 
wife  spoke,  there  came  before  her  eyes  a  picture 
of  that  vivid  city,  putting  on  her  jewels  in  the 
frivolous  lute-stringed  twilight.  Like  a  city  of 
fireflies  it  flashed  into  her  imagination, .  and  the 
sound  of  it  came  back  to  her,  gay  and  sad  as  one 
of  its  own  chansonnettes,  that  wonderful  murmur 
of  Paris,  like   the  sound  of  a  great  shallow  river, 


The  Wandering  Home  1 1  3 

blended  with  the  singing  of  many  sirens,  that 
seems  to  be  calling  you  —  to  come  and  drown,  to 
come  and  drown,  to  come  and  drown. 

"  We  can  go  to  Paris  and  London  later,"  said 
the  Wanderer,  "but  now  —  " 

"  London !  "  exclaimed  the  wife,  her  mind  in- 
stantly making  another  picture.  "  Yes  !  I  should 
love  to  see  London  too,  —  dear  old  London,  with 
its  burly  roar  —  like  the  sound  of  a  great  waterfall 
busily  turning  mills.  I  wonder  how  our  little 
Chatterton  garret  is  looking " ;  and  she  was  back 
on  the  instant  in  some  tiny  old-world  chambers 
with  low  beams  and  undulating  oak  floor,  tucked 
under  the  roof  at  the  top  of  a  crazy  winding 
staircase ;  a  swallow's  nest,  with  red  tiles  and 
a  sweeping  view  of  the  trees  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Square,  swaying  to  and  fro  in  a  prison  of  historic 
architecture. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  musingly,  pointing  to  the  fading 
glow  in  the  west,  "  but  you  must  confess  that  the 
sun  sets  very  prettily  behind  the  Law  Library  in 
Lincoln's  Inn."  r 

Then  the  growing  chill  of  the  night  drove  them 
in  to  the  lighted  sitting-room  behind  them. 

Pervenche  and  Asra  were  in  the  sitting-room, 
turning  over  picture-books,  on  the  edge  of  bedtime. 

"  Where  would  you  like  us  to  go  this  year, 
Pervenche?"  asked  the  mother, 

8 


114  Painted  Shadows 

Pervenche  looked  up  out  of  her  deep  cave 
of  hair,  and  after  a  moment's  serious  thought 
answered : 

"  I  think,  mother,  I  should  like  best  to  go  to  the 
Orange  Trees  in  the  Blue  Mountains.  It  is  quite 
a  long  time  since  we  were  there." 

"  But  how  about  your  French,  dear?  " 

"  O  mother,  I  know  far  more  than  I  did 
then." 

"  Suppose  old  Nonotte  should  ask  you  to  say 
one  of  those  little  songs  she  used  to  teach  you  —  " 

"  I  remember  them,  mother  —  at  least  some  of 
them.     I  can  say  Les  Hirondelles,  I  'm  sure." 

"  Say  it,  little  one,"  said  the  father,  stroking  her 
long  hair. 

After  a  quaint  little  clearing  of  her  throat  by 
way  of  preparation,  Pervenche  began : 

"  '  Que  j'aime  k  voir  les  hirondelles, 
A  ma  fenetre,  tous  les  ans, 
Venir  m'apporter  des  nouvelles 
De  I'approche  du  doux  printemps  ! 
Le  meme  nid,  me  disent-elles, 
Va  revoir  les  memes  amour  : 
Ce  n'est  qu'k  des  amants  fid&les 
A  vous  annoncer  les  beaux  jours. 

"  '  Lorsque  les  premieres  geldes 
Font  tomber  les  feuilles  des  bois, 
Les  hirondelles  rassembl^es 
S'appellent  toutcs  sur  les  toits ; 


The  Wandering  Home  115 

Partons,  partons,  se  disent-elles, 
Fuyons  la  neige  et  les  autans  ; 
Point  d'hiver  pour  les  coeurs  fiddles  ; 
lis  sont  toujours  dans  le  printemps.'  " 

"  Bravo,  dear !  "  said  the  father,  as  Pervenche 
finished,  with  a  little  gasp  of  achievement.  "  So 
you  would  really  like  to  go  to  the  Orange  Trees  in 
the  Blue  Mountains.  Well,  mother  and  I  will 
think  about  it.     But  what  is  Asra's  opinion  .-' " 

"  I,"  answered  Asra,  stoutly,  "  would  rather  go 
to  North  Star  Castle,  and  play  among  the  rocks 
and  go  out  with  the  old  fishermen." 

North  Star  Castle  was  their  name  for  an  old  inn 
right  away  near  the  top  of  Norway,  mortised  in 
among  rocks  and  fishing-nets,  and  filled  with  the 
sound  of  the  sea. 

"  But  it  would  be  so  cold  there  yet,  Asra.  Why, 
we  should  have  to  walk  in  snowshoes,  and  wear 
skins,  like  the  Eskimo  ..." 

"  I  should  love  snowshoes,"  rejoined  Asra. 

"  And  perhaps  eat  candles  ..."  the  father 
continued   smiling. 

"  O  father !  "  both  the  children  laughed 
skeptically. 

"  Or  frozen  whale." 

"  O  father  !  " 

When  the  children  had  gone,  the  Wanderer 
turned  to  his  wife. 


ii6  Painted  Shadows 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Pervenche's  suggestion?  " 
he  said. 

"  I  second  it,"  she  answered. 

So  it  was  decided  that  they  were  to  take  the 
next  Itahan  boat,  and  come  at  length  to  the 
Orange  Trees  in  the  Blue  Mountains. 

The  Orange  Trees  in  the  Blue  Mountains  was 
their  name  for  an  old  mill-house  lying  in  a  fertile 
valley,  at  the  back  of  the  dark  hills  which  run  like 
a  wall  along  the  French  Riviera.  It  is  hidden 
away  four  or  five  miles  inland  behind  an  old  rocky 
castellated  town  that  overlooks  the  Mediterranean, 
a  scramble  of  narrow,  climbing  streets,  little  shops, 
market-place  and  old  parish  church,  all  huddled 
under  the  grim  shadow  of  the  old  feudal  castle. 
The  valley  is  so  spacious  as  rather  to  be  a  plain, 
—  a  vivid  oasis  of  cultivation  refreshing  to  the  eye 
and  heart  amid  the  swart  solitudes  of  the  surround- 
ing hills.  A  little  river  ripples  like  a  harpsichord 
through  the  valley,  past  whispering  trees  and  round 
grassy  corners  flickering  with  anemones.  There, 
too,  is  a  vineyard,  acres  of  tendrilled  green,  and  a 
great  cluster  of  barnlike  buildings,  in  which  the 
wine  is  stored  in  mysterious  vats  and  barrels.  An 
avenue  of  limes  runs  like  a  silver  lane  across  one 
end  of  the  valley,  and,  if  you  walk  up  this  lane, 
you  come  at  last  to  The  Orange  Trees  in  the  Blue 
Mountains  —  a  rambling  old  mill-house  tucked  into 


The  Wandering  Home  117 

a  ferny  elbow  of  the  hillside,  just  where  the  river 
sings  its  way  back  among  the  hills,  turning  the 
mossed  old  waterwheel  as  it  goes.  Along  the 
river  bank  runs  the  big  old  garden,  rambling  up 
the  hillside,  and  here  in  the  sun  grow  the  orange 
trees  —  solar  systems  of  golden  fruit  in  a  heaven  of 
bright  and  bushy  emerald.  Above  the  garden  is 
a  little  olive  orchard,  mounting  in  terraces  of  sunny 
shadow;  regular  irregularity  of  twisted  trunk,  and 
cloud  upon  cloud  of  sunburnt  green.  Each  step 
of  the  broad  staircase  is  a  long  floor  of  laughing 
flowers ;  a  terrace  of  olive  trees,  then  a  little  jump 
of  hyacinths  ;  a  terrace  of  olive  trees,  then  a  ledge 
of  yellow  roses ;  a  terrace  of  olive  trees,  then  a 
strip  of  beans  in  flower;  a  terrace  of  olive  trees, 
then  a  lake  of  freshest  violets ;  so,  by  steps  of 
orchard  and  flower  bed,  with  shadowy  resting- 
places  of  sudden  rock,  the  olive  trees  give  place 
at  last  to  the  little  cork-oaks,  that  clothe  the  hills 
with  a  thickset  garment  of  small,  dark,  shining 
leaves  —  the  gate  of  the  wilderness. 

The  Wanderers  had  come  upon  the  place  in  one 
of  their  earliest  wanderings  together,  and  the  old 
miller  and  his  wife  had  taken  them  in  to  lodge 
there,  one  never-to-be-forgotten  spring,  before  as 
yet  either  Pervenche  or  Asra  had  their  present 
wide  acquaintance  with  the  world —  in  fact,  before 
they  had  come  into  the  world  at  all. 


1 1 8  Painted  Shadows 

The  place  was  indeed  to  them  that  hidden 
garden  somewhere  in  the  world  for  all  of  us,  a 
garden  of  which  most  of  us  have  lost  the  key,  or 
which  we  dare  not  visit  again :  the  garden  of  rap- 
ture, of  enchanted  moments  —  the  Eternal  Eden. 
There  was  not  a  corner  of  that  little  valley,  not  a 
bend  of  the  stream,  not  a  dingle  in  the  woods,  not 
a  path  across  the  hills,  which  had  not  for  them  a 
fairy  significance;  nor  yet  a  face  they  had  seen, 
nor  a  local  characteristic,  nor  any  smallest  occur- 
rence of  the  time,  which  was  not  then  and  now  of 
the  stuff  of  dreams. 

O  those  old  picnics  by  the  stream  side  !  One 
of  Mother  Michaud's  delicious  pates  made  espe- 
cially for  them,  and  exquisite  white  cheese,  and  a 
litre  of  the  valley's  own  wine,  bought  from  Bacchus 
himself,  as  they  called  the  huge  old  keeper  of  the 
vineyard  —  true  wine  of  the  earth,  for  forty  cen- 
times the  litre.  And  some  exquisite  book,  not  so 
much  to  read  in,  but  just  because  they  knew  it  to  be 
full  of  beautiful  words.  Then  to  lie  back  into  the 
golden  grass  with  their  cigarettes,  and  look  up  at 
the  sky  through  the  dainty  trees.  And,  all  the 
time,  the  running  of  the  river  and  the  visiting  but- 
terflies and  —  themselves. 

And  those  long  tramps  among  the  hills,  hills 
which  at  first  promised  nothing  but  the  sombreness 
of  the  cork-oaks,  and  the  metallic  rocky  footways, 


The  Wandering  Home  1 1 9 

but  which  were  presently  seen  to  be  silvered  with 
asphodel,  and  embroidered  with  orchids — ivory, 
and  velvet,  and  dew,  and  green  with  unsuspected 
nooks  of  grassy  freshness.  How  they  would  start 
at  dawn,  while  there  was  still  a  feeling  of  starlight 
in  the  air,  and  the  sun  had  not  yet  warmed  to  his 
work !  Up  and  afoot  before  nature's  business  was 
a-hum,  and  while  its  beauty  was  but  half  awake, 
wandering  on  while  the  day  slowly  kindled  like  a 
newly  lit  fire  about  them,  on  to  the  merry  blaze 
and  roar  of  noon.  And  all  the  time  that  thrilling 
comradeship  of  two  who  are  at  once  comrades  and 
lovers.  All  the  little  excitements  of  the  way  —  the 
high  spirits,  the  wit,  the  romp  of  it  all ;  and  at 
length  as  noon  would  bring  them  with  a  sudden 
flash  of  amethyst  to  the  Mediterranean  and  the  old 
brasseried  town  —  O!  what  an  inspired  appetite 
for  lunch,  an  appetite  so  keen  and  fresh  as  almost 
to  seem  a  spiritual  rather  than  a  physical  hunger ! 
Then  the  old  garden  of  Les  Hcsperides ;  again 
orange  trees,  and  arbours  of  yellow  roses,  and  fair 
food  and  wine  like  laughter  in  the  glass,  and  — 
each  other. 

All  these  and  a  hundred  such  pictures  passed 
through  the  minds  of  the  Wanderers  as  they  sat 
musing  a  moment  after  the  children  had  gone. 
They  both  came  out  of  their  dream-garden  at  the 
same  moment,  and  their  thoughts  met  at  the  gate. 


I  20  Painted  Shadows 

"  No  wonder  Pervenche  loves  the  Orange  Trees 
in  the  Blue  Mountains,"  said  the  Wanderer, 
gently. 

"Do  yott  want  to  go  there  again?"  asked  his 
wife,  smiUng. 


THE   FIRST   CHURCH    OF   THE 
RESTORATION,   AMERICAN 

[/  am  compelled  to  disguise  the  names  of  the  people  taking  part  in 
the  foUoiving  sto7y,  as  their  real  names  are  too  well  known  in  New 
York  society.     Essentially,  hoivever,  the  story  is  trite,  as  time  will 
prove.] 


THE   FIRST   CHURCH    OF   THE 
RESTORATION,   AMERICAN 

AS  the  Reverend  Arthur  Winslow  stepped 
out  on  to  Fifth  Avenue  at  four  of  a  May 
morning  —  to  be  precise,  the  morning  of 
May  14,  1901  —  any  one  who  had  observed  him 
would  readily  have  understood  wh}'  he,  of  all  men, 
or  rather  all  clergymen,  should  have  been  chosen 
for  the  remarkable  revelation  which  had  been 
made  to  him  during  the  most  momentous  night  of 
his  life,  a  revelation  with  which  his  whole  being 
was  turbulently  on  fire.  He  dismissed  the  auto- 
mobile which  had  been  awaiting  him  since  one 
o'clock  —  the  automobile  with  which,  as  a  fash- 
ionable divine,  he  did  his  district  visiting  —  and 
turned  toward  the  park.  He  needed  to  walk.  As 
he  strode  away,  with  the  vigour  of  an  athlete  and 
"  the  grace  of  a  young  god,"  he  paused  once  to 
look  at  the  house  he  had  left  — a  famous  house, 
the  owner  of  which  was  known  for  his  combination 
of  enormous  wealth  with  exquisite  taste.  Probably 
no  one  ever  passes  the  house  without   saying  to 


124  Painted  Shadows 

himself  or  his  companion,  "  That  is  Mulciber 
Jackson's  house."  But  if  that  passer-by  knew  how 
much  more  that  house  means  than  he  has  the 
dimmest  notion  of,  with  what  a  different  wonder 
would  he  gaze  at  it!  The  minister  knew  —  that  is, 
he  had  known  for  an  hour  or  two.  He  had  often 
dined  in  that  house  before.  He  was  quite  ac- 
customed to  dining  with  millionaires.  Was  he  not 
known  as  "  The  MiUionaires'  Vicar  "?  Yet  he  had 
never  had  the  smallest  suspicion  of  what  he  now 
knew.  Not  a  hint.  The  secret  had  indeed  been 
well  kept. 

The  air  was  all  sensitive  with  the  dawn.  A 
mysterious  purity  was  in  the  air.  Fifth  Avenue 
looked  like  some  fairy  street  just  made  in  a  dream. 
The  indescribable  eloquence  of  the  silent  coming 
of  light  thrilled  the  heart.  From  masses  of  sleepy 
mother-of-pearl,  the  sky  changed  to  handfuls  of 
fire-red  opals,  and  spears  of  pure  gold  shot  up 
here  and  there  through  the  tumbled  colours  of 
the  clouds. 

Winslow  had  an  impulse  to  go  on  his  knees, 
right  there  in  Fifth  Avenue,  before  the  august 
Light-Bringer,  but  he  forbore;  though  the  impulse 
showed  the  insight  which  had  prompted  the  re- 
markable proposal  which  was  filling  his  heart 
with  the  blended  exhilaration  of  joy  and  fear. 
Within  the  seclusion  of  the  park  the  impulse  grew 


First  Church  of  the  Restoration      i  25 

even  stronger.  The  vivid  grass,  almost  phantasmal 
in  the  freshness  of  its  green,  the  spiritual  look  of 
the  trees  —  "  the  trees  about  a  temple  "  —  the  con- 
secration which  seemed  mysteriously  poured  over 
the  most  ordinary  object,  affected  him  almost  to 
the  point  of  ecstasy.  He  looked  at  his  Christian 
clothes  with  a  strange  smile.  Had  he  been  in  a 
more  secluded  place,  he  would  have  torn  them 
from  him,  and  stood  up  naked  in  the  dawn,  a 
radiant  young  priest  of  Apollo. 

Mulciber  P.  Jackson  was  one  of  those  powerful 
ugly  men  whom  women  adore;  of  massive  build,  a 
rough-hewn  face,  bearded  as  a  rock  is  bearded 
with  ferns  and  mosses,  he  was,  at  the  same  time, 
ponderously  lame.  He  had  a  humour  which  was 
like  the  laughing  of  a  volcano,  and  he  could  also, 
at  times,  suddenly  reveal  a  charm  of  gentleness, 
tender  as  those  surprising  nooks  of  green  that 
nestle  in  the  fire-mountain's  side. 

His  wife  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  New 
York.  As  such,  I  presume  she  is  not  easily  iden- 
tifiable. Were  I  to  tell  you  her  real  name,  you 
would  recognize  her  at  once  as  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  the  world.  The  Mulciber  Jacksons  were 
somewhat  mysterious  in  their  origin.  Of  course, 
it  was  said  that  Mulciber  Jackson  was  a  Jew,  or  "  a 
Hebrew,"  as  they  politely  say  in  America.  It  is 
one  of  the  many  privileges  of  all  rich  men  to  be 


I  26  Painted  Shadows 

credited  with  belonging  to  one  of  the  two  most  re- 
markable races  that  have  made  human  history  and 
still  go  on  making  it.  Acute  observers  referred 
Mulciber  Jackson  to  that  other  race,  and  there 
they  were  undoubtedly  right;  for  he  was  certainly 
more  Greek  than  Jew.  His  wife's  face  was  pure 
Greek,  as  a  woman's  face  is  allowed  to  be.  Some 
spiteful  tongues  said  that  Mrs.  Mulciber  Jackson 
imitated  the  Venus  of  Milo ;  but  her  beauty  was 
too  adventurous,  too  rich  and  strange,  to  merit  the 
accusation.  Even  if  Mulciber  Jackson  had  not 
been  ugly,  he  would  still  have  attracted  to  his 
house  all  the  beauty  of  New  York ;  for,  as  I  have 
said,  he  was  rich  as  well.  Indeed,  to  dine  at  his 
table  was  the  quickest  way  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  classics  of  American  beauty  and  wealth. 
Yes,  he  was  a  remarkable  man,  but  only  those 
who  shared  his  confidence,  as  Winslow  now  shared 
it,  really  knew  how  remarkable.  Beneath  his 
somewhat  terrible  drollery  he  hid  a  purpose  that 
could  only  flag  with  achievement.  Generally 
known  as  the  funniest  man  in  New  York,  he  was 
actually  its  divinest  and,  some  would  say,  its  most 
dangerous  dreamer.  What  was  he  rich  for?  His 
dream.  Why  was  his  life  so  splendidly  hospitable? 
His  dream.  Why  did  he  trouble  himself  about 
the  Reverend  Arthur  Winslow?  His  dream.  What 
was  his  dream?     You  shall   hear. 


First  Church  of  the  Restoration      127 

Dinner  at  Mulciber  Jackson's  was  apt  to  be 
almost  too  showily  symbolic  of  the  power  and 
beauty  of  America.  If  one  could  make  any  criti- 
cism against  the  taste  of  his  entertainments,  it 
was  that  his  guests  were  too  uniformly  remarkable. 
There  was  never  anyone  to  be  met  at  his  dining- 
table  that  was  not  in  some  way  or  another  illus- 
trious, except,  possibly,  yourself.  You  almost 
felt  that  you  had  been  asked  to  a  dinner  of  public 
monuments. 

Winslow  had  certainly  felt  that,  till  he  had 
grown  used  to  Mulciber  Jackson's  dinners ;  and, 
the  first  occasion  on  which  he  had  sat  at  the 
great  man's  table,  he  had  noted  with  a  certain 
terror  the  way  the  guests  —  for  the  most  part 
magnates  from  Wall  Street,  purposely  chosen  by  a 
host  who  realised  the  clerical  interest  in  rich 
people  —  had  talked  about  various  gigantic  under- 
takings, as  Titans  might  spin  tops  together.  To 
hear  them  talk  of  fifty  millions  of  dollars  —  as 
if  the  subject  wasn't  money  at  all,  only  "  horse- 
power "  or  so  many  "  volts,"  put  Winslow's  cus- 
tomary eloquence  to  silence.  To  his  fancy  they 
were  like  so  many  presidents  of  the  elements. 
Here  was  a  man  talking  of  owning  the  sea,  as 
though  he  were  Neptune ;  another  of  electric 
power,  as  though  he  had  bought  up  the  bolts  of 
Jupiter;    a  third  discussing  rapid  transit  as  though 


128  Painted  Shadows 

he  were  Mercury ;  and  there  was  a  woman  who 
talked  of  corn  as  though  she  were  Ceres.  There, 
too,  sat  a  new  god  discussing  oil  in  a  loud 
voice. 

How  curiously  near  the  fact  Winslow's  fancy 
was  he  had  little  known.  But  the  occurrences  of 
this  last  evening  recalled  and  confirmed  it. 

During  dinner  he  had  been  vaguely  conscious 
that  something  unusual  was  in  the  air.  His  beauti- 
ful companion  had  been  indiscreet  enough  to  half 
ask  him  questions  which,  she  remembered  too 
late,  she  had  no  right  to  put. 

"  Was  he  .  .  .  ?  "    but  "  No  !   she  forgot  ..." 

And  he  remembered  afterwards  that  the  faces 
of  the  men  wore  a  curiously  uplifted,  one  might 
almost  say,  religious  expression. 

When  the  ladies  had  withdrawn,  Mulciber  Jack- 
son took  the  opportunity  of  a  private  word  with 
Winslow.  He  had  not,  of  course,  failed  to  notice 
the  effect  on  his  face  of  a  sudden  strain  of  music, 
stealthily  escaped  and  quickly  recaptured,  as 
might  be  said,  from  the  limits  of  the  world :  an 
apparition  of  sound  strangely  coming  and  going 
along  subterranean   corridors  of  approach. 

"  Arthur,"  he  said  —  for  he  was  on  terms  of 
affectionate  friendship  with  the  minister  —  "  I 
have  a  surprise  for  you  to-night.  You  will,  I 
know,    understand    and    appreciate;    and   I    know 


First  Church  of  the  Restoration      129 

it  will  startle  you  at  first,  but,  after  the   first  sur- 
prise, well,  I  have  hopes  I  will  talk  of  later." 

Presently  the  guests  rose  and  departed  to  a 
quarter  of  the  house  which  was  quite  new  to 
VVinslow.  A  quiet-looking  door  opened  on  a 
deep  passage  slanting  gently  downwards.  The 
walls  of  the  passage  were  decorated  by  frescoes 
of  a  decidedly  religious  character,  but  the  religion 
was  one  that  has  long  since  passed  away.  Mulci- 
ber  took  Winslow's  arm,  and  detained  him  a  little 
way  behind  the  rest.  "  I  suppose  you  never  really 
suspected  your  friend  Mulciber  of  religion,"  he 
said.  "  You  will  see ;  I  shall  be  surprised  if  you 
are  not  profoundly  stirred  —  and  even  changed  ; 
or  rather  decided." 

Mulciber  was  unwontedly  nervous  for  so  rugged 
and  hairy  a  man,  and  his  limp  made  his  face 
twitch  painfully. 

The  corridor  at  length  brought  them  to  an 
exquisite  little  elevator  of  painted  cedar,  in  which 
they  were  rapidly  carried  as  it  seemed  into  the 
very  centre  of  the  earth.  As  they  glided  down- 
wards, strains  of  the  same  music  Winslow  had 
heard  before  came  up  to  them ;  and  presently, 
as  the  elevator  finished  its  journey,  Winslow  found 
himself  in  a  hushed  world  of  worship  and  white 
marble.  As  from  a  small  private  chapel  he  was 
looking  out  into  a  beautiful  little  Greek  temple. 

9 


130  Painted  Shadows 

The  temple  was  already  filled  with  kneeling 
worshippers,  and  white-robed  priests  moved  about 
the  altar  in  the  offices  of  a  ritual,  which  was  un- 
familiar to  the  young  Anglican  priest,  but  which 
yet  seemed  not  quite  strange  to  him. 

Music  and  singing  of  an  indescribable  mourn- 
fulness  blent  with  incense  and  the  piercing  fra- 
grance of  spring  flowers. 

Yet,  beneath  all  the  terrible  sadness,  there 
seemed  an  undertone  as  of  some  lost  joy  rising 
from  the  dead. 

It  was  the  Easter  Day  of  some  great  old  sorrow. 

It  was  impossible  for  Winslow,  with  all  his  sus- 
ceptibility to  beautiful  ritual,  the  aesthetic  and  the 
emotional  side  of  religion,  not  to  be  profoundly 
moved. 

Presently  a  great  hush  fell  over  the  temple,  as 
the  high-priest  took  and  held  up  before  the  people 
a  strange  red  flower  with  curiously  lettered  petals. 
Then  in  a  moment  a  great  sob  seemed  to  break 
from  the  very  hearts  of  the  adoring  worshippers. 

"  Ai !  Ai !  "  they  cried.  "  Ai !  Ai !  "  And  again 
"  Ai !  Ai !  "  as  the  priest  elevated  the  sacred  flower 
for  the  third  time. 

Then  Winslow  realised  that  he  was  in  a  temple 
of  Apollo,  and  that  this  was  a  solemn  fast  of 
mourning  for  the  death  of  Hyacinthus,  the  beloved 
friend  of  the  god. 


First  Church  of  the  Restoration      131 

He  looked  at  his  friends.     One  and  all  they  were 
bent  in  an  attitude  of  the  profoundest  worship. 
Then  he,  too,  bent  his  head. 

Later  on,  wlien  VVinslow  was  alone  with  Mulciber 
Jackson  in  his  little  private  smoking-room,  his  host 
turned  to  him  with  some  eagerness. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it  all  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know,"  VVinslow  replied.  "  I  am  yet 
too  confused,  almost  intoxicated,  with  my  im- 
pressions. Besides,  it  was  all  so  unexpected,  so 
strange.     Tell  me  what  it  means." 

"  I  suppose  you  think  that  it  was  all  a  mere 
masquerade;  the  latest  device  of  a  jaded  luxurious 
society,  seeking  after  novelty?  " 

"At  first  I  did,"  the  minister  answered ;  "but 
there  was  a  note  of  seriousness  in  it  that  soon  led 
me  to  think  otherwise." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  for  it  was  quite  serious,  and 
represents  a  very  serious  movement  which  will 
presently  astonish  society  as  it  has  not  been  aston- 
ished for  two  thousand  years.  If  I  tell  you  what  it 
means,  will  you  give  me  your  word,  without  any 
professional  reservation,  that  }'ou  will  keep  what  I 
shall  tell  you  absolutely  secret?  " 

"  I  give  you  my  v/ord." 

"  You  have  read  Heine's  '  Gods  in  Exile  '  ?  " 

"  I  have." 


132  Painted  Shadows 

"  Well  —  the  gods  are  to  be  in  exile  but  a  very 
little  longer.  The  old  gods  are  coming  back.  Two 
of  the  most  important  of  them  came  over  on  the 
Teutonic  last  week,  and  are  living  here  in  New 
York  at  this  moment  —  of  course,  under  assumed 
names,  awaiting  the  event  of  which  I  will  presently 
tell  you." 

"But  you  cannot  be  serious.  'Gods  in  Exile' 
was  merely  a  fancy  ...  a  witty  imagination." 

"  I  am  perfectly  serious,  and  Heine's  fancy  was 
only  a  fancy  in  that  he  represented  the  gods  in  a 
much  worse  plight  than  they  have  ever  been  in. 
That  was  his  incorrigible  irreverence,  to  which  not 
even  his  own  profoundest  beliefs  were  sacred. 
Actually  none  knew  better  than  Heine  the  true 
status  of  the  eternal  gods  in  a  world  and  amid  a 
civilisation  from  which  they  had  been  formally 
banished,  but  which  they  actually  control." 

"  But,  Mulciber,  you  speak  of  the  gods  as  if  they 
were  actually  alive  —  as  if,  indeed,  they  had  ever 
really  existed  at  all,  and  were  not  mere  myths  of 
the  popular  imagination.  Even  supposing  them 
once  to  have  lived,  they  died  at  the  birth  of 
Christ." 

"  Pardon  me.  So  far  as  I  have  heard  or  read, 
the  death  of  but  one  god  has  been  ever  reported, 
the  death  of  Pan  —  and  Pan's  death  was  a  lesfend 
of  which  Christianity    was  sorely  in    need  at  the 


First  Church  of  the  Restoration      133 

time,  for  the  simple  purpose  of  combating  the  all 
too  vigorous  existence  of  the  very  god  the  legend 
declared  to  be  dead.  '  Great  Pan  is  dead  !  '  Why, 
even  you,  as  a  Christian  minister,  face  to  face  with 
the  warm  instincts  of  humanity,  must  know  that,  of 
all  the  gods,  Pan  is  the  god  likely  to  survive  all 
the  rest." 

"  Well,  continue,"  said  Winslow,  after  a  pause. 
"  I  confess  that  I  am  somewhat  bewildered.  Let 
me  listen,  and  I  will  try  not  to  interrupt." 

"  Then  you  must  first  try  to  realise  that  all  I 
tell  you  is  not  fancy  —  strange  as  it  may  sound  — 
but  actual  truth.  The  old  gods,  as  we  call  them, 
have  never  died.  They  have  only  been  deposed 
for  a  short  time.  They  are  soon  to  come  back  to 
their  thrones.  Actually  they  have  never  left  them  ; 
it  is  only  officially  that  they  have  been  exiles." 

"  Go  on,"  Winslow  nodded. 

"  Let  us  talk  a  little  theology,"  continued  Mulci- 
ber,  smiling;  "  I  am  sure  you  won't  object.  I  have 
often  seen  the  race  to  which  I  am  popularly  sup- 
posed to  belong,  praised  for  a  theological  concept 
which  is,  it  seems  to  me,  its  one  mistake;  a 
concept  contrary  to  all  human  experience,  and 
perhaps  on  that  very  account  —  so  whimsical  is 
humanity  —  a  concept  which  has  enjoyed  remark- 
able success.  The  Jews  have  invented  most  things, 
but  their  most  illustrious  invention  is  the    inven- 


134  Painted  Shadows 

tion  of  the  One   God.     The  Jews    are    the    most 
abstract,  the    least    human,  people  in    the    world. 
They  are   a    nation    of  idealists,  of  dreamers,  of 
philosophers,    of     artists.     They    are    skilled    in 
essences,  in  sublimations  of  the  fact  —  rather  than 
the    fact   itself     And    if  you    consider    the    real 
significance  of  the  industry  with  which    they  are 
most  popularly  associated,  you  will  see  how  that 
alone,    and    best    of  all,    proves    my    contention. 
The    industry    of    the     Jew     is     money-making. 
Money-making   is    the    essence    of  all    industries. 
Thus  the  Jew,  unwillingly  enough    compelled    to 
touch  earth  at  some    point,  touches  it    where  all 
its  various  concrete  activities  concentrate  into  an 
abstract  synthesis,  or    distillation,  —  hopelessly,  I 
know,    to    mix    one's    metaphors.     Money  is    the 
distillation  of  all  human  labour.     It  is  a  volatile, 
immaterial  thing ;  the  abstract  flowering  result  of 
all  the  varied  processes  of  human  life.     The  Jew, 
the  aristocrat  of  all  aristocrats,  hating  to  soil  his 
delicate  fingers  with  the  rough  and  common  work 
of  the  world,  but  realising  that  some  work  he  must 
do,  if  he  is   to    continue    living   upon  a   pleasant 
planet,  naturally  chooses  to  touch  life  at    its  most 
abstract  or  immaterial  summit.     Not  for  "him  the 
coarse  and   narrowing  activities  of  popular  indus- 
tries.    Like  some  poet  who  will  not  soil  his  hands 
with  the  writing  of  a  realistic   novel,  the  depicting 


First  Church  of  the  Restoration      135 

of  the  stockyards  of  human  life,  but  will  sing  only 
of  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  face  of  woman, 
so  the  Jew  will  consent  only  to  take  hold  of  that 
material  which  has  already  passed  through  so  many 
processes  of  refinement  that  no  hint  of  those 
cleansing  processes  remains  upon  it;  as  one  might 
distil  attar  of  roses  for  a  living,  and  disown  any  con- 
nection with  the  revolting  processes  by  w^hich  the 
common  gardener  rears  the  rose  to  its  haughty 
immaculacy." 

"  Is  it  proper  for  a  Greek  to  be  quite  so  fond  of 
using  Latin?"  Winslow  asked,  laughing,  interrupt- 
ing merely  that  Mulciber  Jackson  might  gain  a 
moment  in  which  to  breathe. 

Taking  a  draught  of  Apollinaris,  Mulciber 
continued  : 

"  I  have,  as  I  said,  only  referred  to  the  most 
notorious  preoccupation  of  the  Jew  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  his  abstract  habit  of  mind.  A  race  so 
mentally  constituted  would  naturally  produce  a 
Moses  and  a  Spinoza  —  as  it  would  naturally  pro- 
duce a  Shylock.  Above  all  other  races,  it  is  the 
Mental  Race.  In  spite  of  their  remarkable  per- 
sistence, the  Jews  are  the  least  rooted  in  earth  of 
any  people.  Their  patriotism —  is  a  patriotism  of 
the  mind.  They  will  never  go  back  to  Palestine. 
Their  idealism  is  too  great.  It  soars  above  such 
mere  earthly  sentimentalism.     They  were  just  the 


136  Painted  Shadows 

people,    therefore,    to    conceive   an   abstract   One 
God  —  a  god  remote  from  humanity,  understand- 
ing nothing  of  its  needs,  its  joys,  or  its  sorrows, 
a  god   that  indeed  felt   constrained  on  that  very 
account  to  send  his  own  more  human  son    upon 
the  earth,  the  better  to  comprehend  the  strange 
race  of  men.    Through  the  humanity  of  this  divine 
son,  the  concept  of  the  One  God,  paradoxically 
enough,  has  gained  its  widest  acceptance  —  though 
the  monotheistic  ideal  which  Christ  taught  has  all 
along  needed  the  aid  of  his  divine  mother  and  the 
saints  to  make  it  acceptable  to    a  humanity  that 
instinctively  felt  the  need  of  many  gods  —  a  god 
for  every  need.     Gods  succeed  in   proportion   to 
their  humanity.     Jehovah  has  never  been  accepta- 
ble to  the  world,  and  he  owes  his  present  position 
to  the  endearing  humanity  of  his    son.     On   the 
other  hand,  that  humanity  has  been   disastrously 
thinned  by  the  Jewish  blood  in  his  veins.     Christ, 
with  all  his  humanity,  was  still  the  son  of  a  Jewish 
god.      He    brought   the  world  a  gift  of  which  it 
stood  sorely  in  need,  a  gift  by  virtue  of  which  he 
must  hold  his  eternal  place  in  any  Pantheon  —  the 
gift  of  Pity;   but  with  it,  owing,  as  I  said,  to  his 
Jewish  ancestry,  he  brought  abstract   restrictions 
upon  the  kindly  instincts  and  operations    of  hu- 
manity, which  have  prevailed  over  the  true  gift  he 
gave.    It  was  not  really  necessary  that  all  the  gods 


First  Church  of  the  Restoration      i  37 

should  go  for  Christ  to  come.  Their  banishment 
was  but  that  inevitable  eclipse  of  other  stars  which 
must  always  accompany  the  lighting  of  a  new  star. 
Now  that  the  new  star  has  settled  down  to  a  nor- 
mal place  in  the  heavens,  we  see  that  the  old  stars 
are  still  burning.  That's  what  I  mean  when  I  say 
that  the  old  gods  are  coming  back  —  or  rather  that 
they  have  never  gone  away.  Christ  will  not  be 
banished  when  they  come  back.  His  place  will 
still  be  His.     They  merely  resume  their  own." 

Winslow  was  evidently  struck  by  this  reasoning. 

Mulciber  Jackson  continued:  "Yes,  humanity  is 
too  complex  to  be  satisfied  with  one  god.  It  is 
impossible  for  one  god  to  understand  all  the  needs, 
all  the  hopes  and  aspirations,  of  humanity.  That 
there  is  one  god  greater  than  all  the  rest  our  own 
Grecian  theology  has  formulated.  Zeus  is  wor- 
shipped as  the  Father  of  the  Gods.  But  his  wisdom 
is  so  great  that  he  leaves  the  lesser  gods  undisputed 
sway  in  their  own  dominions.  He  would  iiot  dream 
of  instructing  Neptune  in  the  management  of  the. 
sea,  or  of  interfering  with  the  purposes  of  Apollo. 
But  we  must  not  wander  too  far  afield.  I  shall 
hope  to  have  many  opportunities  of  discussing 
with  you  such  mere  points  of  doctrine.  To-night 
it  is  not  theories  I  wish  to  talk  with  you,  but  facts. 
Now  you  and  I  may  think  as  we  please  about  the 
old  gods,  their  management  of  the  world  and  so 


>  ■» 


138  Painted  Shadows 

on,  but  the  fact  remains,  as  I  have  said,  that  they 
are  coming  back  —  coming  back  not  only  to  their 
own  power,  but  to  a  power  far  greater  than  any  they 
have  ever  wielded  before.  If  you  doubt  this, 
consider  a  moment  the  condition  of  the  world,  and 
can  you  sincerely  say  that  it  is  a  Christian  condi- 
tion? Ostensibly  we  still  live  in  the  Christian  era. 
Our  churches  are  externally  Christian.  Christian 
ethics  are  supposed  to  rule  our  lives.  Officially  the 
world  is  Christian  —  actually  it  is  what  you  might 
call  '  Pagan.'  In  what  is  the  world  most  interested 
to-day?  Is  it  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven,  the  in- 
heritance of  the  weak,  the  amelioration  of  the  poor, 
the  spiritual  life?  No,  the  world  is  interested  in 
Power  and  Beauty.  War  and  Women  and  Wealth 
are  practically  all  it  thinks  of  It  still  professes 
Christ,  but  its  real  divinities  are  Mars  and  Venus 
and  Plutus.  Of  this  there  can  be  no  doubt  at  all, 
"  These  three  divinities  were  never  seriously  dis- 
turbed by  the  Christian  heresy.  Like  some  royal 
family,  overthrown  awhile  by  popular  sedition, 
they  went  into  retirement,  indeed,  but  into  retire- 
ment no  less  splendid  and  luxurious  than  the 
public  life  to  which  they  had  been  accustomed. 
They  have  never  changed  the  manner  of  their 
lives  in  the  smallest  particular,  nor  has  the  number 
of  their  worshippers  ever  appreciably  decreased. 
The    only  difference    has   been   that   the  worship 


First  Church  of  the  Restoration      i 


39 


offered  to  them  has  been  a  secret  rather  than  a 
pubHc  devotion,  and  for  that  very  reason  the 
more  sincere.  Actual  godship  has  always  been 
theirs,  but  naturally,  with  the  pride  of  their  race, 
they  have  dreamed  of  the  time  when  it  should  once 
more  be  publicly  acknowledged.  It  is  not  meet 
that  the  immortal  gods  should  rule  the  world  in 
hiding,  however  superb  be  their  hiding-places. 

"  Now  it  has  been  decided  that  the  time  for  a 
public  restoration  of  the  old  gods  has  come.  Not 
only  do  all  the  signs  in  the  world  at  large  point 
that  way,  but  those  familiar  with  the  inner  work- 
ings of  the  so-called  religious  world  know  that  it 
too  is  prepared  for  and  sympathetic  towards  the 
change.  The  many  new  churches  which  have 
sprung  up  of  late  years,  particularly  many  of  them 
in  America,  as  you  know,  with  immense  wealth 
and  social  power  behind  them,  have  not  only  been 
useful  in  preparing  the  way  for  us,  by  familiarising 
men's  minds  with  the  idea  of  a  coming  change 
and  the  necessity  of  it,  but  the  majority  of  them 
are  secretly  affiliated  to  our  cause,  and  ready,  at 
the  right  moment,  to  throw  off  the  mask  and  openly 
acknowledge  allegiance  to  the  old  gods,  whom  they 
actually  worship  under  Christian  names.  How 
nearly  related  to  us  the  oldest  and  most  powerful 
Christian  church  has  always  been  you  need  not  be 
told.     The  change  there  will  be  very  slight.     The 


140  Painted  Shadows 

saints  will  but  resume  their  old  names,  and  hardly 
any  appreciable  changes  in  the  ceremonial  will  be 
found  necessary.  In  regard  to  the  newer  churches, 
you  may  have  noticed  the  prominence  given  to 
love  in  their  doctrines.  Mystical  phraseology  is 
often  used  to  veil  it,  and  it  is  sometimes  referred 
to  as  sisterly  love  or  brotherly  love ;  but  that  it  is 
one  of  the  many  forms  of  the  worship  of  our  au- 
gust lady,  known  variously  as  Urania  and  Aphro- 
dite, no  one  acquainted  with  its  ceremonies  can 
doubt.  Enough  then  to  convince  you  that  the 
world  is  ready  and  waiting  for  the  revelation  which 
I  have  made  to  you  to-night.  I  am  but  one  hum- 
ble mouthpiece  of  a  vast  organisation  which  is 
backed  by  all  the  power  and  wealth  and  other  in- 
fluence of  the  world.  You  may  take  my  word 
that  on  a  certain  date,  which  I  will  confide  to 
you,  the  world  will  officially  cease  to  be  Christian. 
Christianity  will  not  be  abolished.  Actually  it 
has  never  been  more  than  a  small  sect.  It  is  too 
spiritual,  too  unearthly,  an  ideal  ever  to  take  hold 
of  great  numbers  of  men.  By  an  accident  it  be- 
came constituted  as  a  powerful  hypocrisy.  Now 
it  will  sink  back  to  sincerer  dimensions.  The 
number  of  real  Christians  in  the  world  will  be  no 
smaller  than  before,  and  they  will  be  free  to  wor- 
ship as  they  choose,  without  oppression,  or  the 
intrusion  upon  them  of  those  hypocrites  who  have 


First  Church  of  the  Restoration      141 

vulgarised  their  beautiful  creed.  Orders  are  al- 
ready given  throughout  the  world  that  on  that  day 
of  Restoration  the  images  of  Christ  are  everywhere 
to  be  respected.  His  place  among  the  gods  is  his 
for  ever  —  the  place  of  the  God  of  Pity.  It  is 
only,  as  I  said,  the  old  gods  who  resume  their 
places  —  the  Gods  of  Power.  On  that  day,  in 
every  great  city  of  the  world,  temples  of  Jupiter 
and  Apollo,  of  Diana  and  Venus,  will  be  opened. 
They  are  now  in  course  of  erection  —  supposedly 
as  Christian  churches.  When  you  give  me  your 
decision,  I  will  reveal  to  you  the  full  extent  of  our 
plans ;  but  first  you  must  give  nic  your  answer  to 
this  question :  '  Will  you  consent  to  be  the  High 
Priest  of  Apollo  of  the  First  Church  of  the  Resto- 
ration in  New  York? 

After  Mulciber  Jackson  had  finished  speaking, 
the  friends  sat  some  moments  in  silence.  The 
minister  was  visibly  moved.  A  great  conflict  was 
taking  place  in  his  soul. 

"  You  have  been  chosen  for  mc  to  speak  to, 
Arthur,"  added  Mulciber,  presently,  "  not  merely 
because  of  your  popularity  and  your  gifts  of  elo- 
quence, but  because  we  believe  that,  while  you 
have  been  a  sincere  priest  of  Christianity  in  its 
more  human  aspects,  you  have  also  come  to  see 
its  limitations  as  a  complete  formula  of  human  life. 
It  supplements  us,  but  it  can  never  permanently 


142  Painted  Shadows 

displace  us.  Man  needs  all  his  gods :  he  cannot 
afford  to  lose  any  of  them.  And,  similarly,  some 
men  are  born  to  be  priests  of  one  god,  and  some 
priests  of  another.  Believe  me,  you  were  born 
less  a  priest  of  Christ  than  a  priest  of  Apollo." 

Such  \vas  the  proposal  that  was  agitating  the 
mind  of  the  Reverend  Arthur  Winslow,  as  he 
paced  Central  Park  on  the  morning  of  the  14th  of 
May,  this  present  year. 

Of  his  decision  I  know  nothing. 


BEAUTY'S   PORTMANTEAU 


BEAUTY'S    PORTMANTEAU 

THE  five  o'clock  train  leaving  Waterloo  on 
Saturdays  for  the  more  distinguished  parts 
of  Surrey  is  undeniably  one  of  the  smartest 
trains  of  the  week.  I  have  heard  it  jealously  called 
"  the  Haw-Haw  train."  I  prefer  to  call  it  the  feu- 
dal train  —  for,  apart  from  its  aristocratic  travel- 
lers, it  is  filled,  from  engine  to  guard's  van,  with  so 
feudal  a  spirit  that  one  might,  without  exaggeration, 
describe  it  as  a  baronial  hall  on  wheels.  It  is  the 
romance  of  the  day  for  the  corduroyed  porters  who 
know  their  distinguished  clients  too  well  to  expect 
from  them  the  costly  tips  they  would  surely  demand 
from  your  mere  bourgeois  passenger.  To  sweat 
and  groan  under  the  baggage  of  a  mere  merchant, 
however  wealthy,  is  one  thing.  There  is  no  glory 
in  that.  Therefore,  it  is  natural  that  you  expect 
money  to  make  up  the  deficiency.  Sir  Ralph 
Gilderoy  is,  of  course,  quite  another  matter.  He 
is  a  form  of  poetry.  He  is  emblazoned  in  your  im- 
agination, like  a  herald's  coat.  Though  he  should 
look  like  an  ordinary  passenger  —  and,  to  do  him 
justice,  he  usually  does  —  to  your  feudal  eye  he  is 

10 


146  Painted  Shadows 

romantic  as  his  own  coat  of  arms.  Probably  your 
brother  is  one  of  his  under-gardeners  down  there 
in  fragrant  Surrey,  and  if  he  should  only  give  you 
sixpence  instead  of  a  shilling  you  understand  that 
it  is  no  meanness  on  his  part  ...  for  you  know,  by 
long-inherited  instincts  of  cheerful  servitude  how 
hard  it  is  for  a  gentleman  to  live  in  a  world  so  sor- 
didly run  upon  a  money  basis.  Indeed,  if  you 
could  only  dare,  you  would  like  to  say  to  him, 
"  Keep  it.  Sir  Ralph  .  .  .  some  other  time,  when 
you  are  better  off."  And  should  he  give  you  a 
shilling  —  you  bless  him  for  a  gentleman  indeed  — 
for  no  one  but  a  gentleman  would  give  you  his 
last  shilling. 

If  this  sounds  ironical,  sarcastic,  or  anything 
cheap  like  that,  I  must  beg  the  reader  to  believe 
that  my  words  have  been  put  together  with  no  such 
intention.  I  mean  them  to  convey  neither  more 
nor  less  than  the  distinction  attaching  to  the  five 
o'clock  train  leaving  Waterloo  on  Saturdays  for  the 
more  distinguished  parts  of  Surrey,  and  the  pure 
joy  it  gives  to  all  the  railway  officials,  from  highest 
to  lowest,  privileged  to  have  a  hand,  however  hum- 
ble, in  running  it.  Heavens!  but  it  is  a  proud 
train  !  Of  course  it  never  dreams  of  stopping  at 
Surbiton.  Stopping  at  Surbiton  !  I  should  think 
not !  Why,  it  flashes  nervously  through  the  station, 
as  though  afraid  that  Surbiton  should  insist  on  a 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  147 

recognition  —  and  it  so  full  of  lords  and  ladies 
and  golf-sticks  !  Even  Esher  —  think  now,  Esher  ! 
—  it  thunders  through  with  the  utmost  noncha- 
lance. Much  against  its  will,  it  pulls  up  at  Guild- 
ford, but  anyone  can  tell  by  the  impatient  way  in 
which  it  fumes  out  steam  that  its  aristocratic  heart 
rebels  at  the  materialistic  time-table  which  enforces 
so  vulgar  a  delay. 

"Next  stop  Witley!"  cry  out  the  guards  and 
ticket  collectors  —  and  with  what  alacrity  the  five 
train  hides  its  shame  in  the  chalk  tunnel  of  the 
Hog's  Back,  and  straightens  itself  Hke  a  greyhound 
for  the  climb  to  that  noble  junction  of  coronetted 
country  roads  ! 

Anyone  who  flatters  himself  that  the  feudal  sys- 
tem is  dead  and  done  with  should  see  that  five  train 
drawing  in  to  Witley  some  Saturday  afternoon  in 
July.  It  is  one  of  the  loveliest  sights  in  the  world, 
looked  at  in  the  proper  spirit.  Of  course,  there 
are  other  stations  on  the  route  between  Waterloo 
and  Portsmouth  worth  a  brief  respectable  stop,  — 
Haslemere,  Liphook,  and  Liss,  for  example ;  but 
not  one  of  them  begins  to  compare  in  aristocratic 
unction  with  Witley. 

For  quite  a  while  before  the  five  train  is  due,  the 
pretty  little  station,  with  its  name  picked  out  in  ge- 
raniums or  some  other  railway  station  flower,  be- 
gins to  fill  with  excitement.     It  is  absurdly  small 


148  Painted  Shadows 

and  humble  in  appearance  considering  its  impor- 
tance —  one  might  almost  say  its  "  fame,"  even 
its  destiny ;  and  when  the  five  has  been  signalled 
and  is  seen  labouring  up  the  last  stretch  of  hol- 
lowed pinewood,  it  will  become  congested  with 
struggling  expectancy  of  a  high  order.  Long 
since,  the  gravelled  circle  of  roadway  outside  the 
station  has  been  thronged  with  the  solemn  presences 
of  smart  vehicles  of  every  conceivable  fashion  of 
smartness.  The  grooms  and  the  horseflesh  still 
hold  their  own,  but  the  chauffeurs  and  automobiles 
are  evidently  "  it  "  as  well.  Suddenly  a  great 
hand-bell  clangs  through  the  station,  and  the  few 
disregarded  country-folk  look  to  their  baskets  and 
their  umbrellas.  An  eager  row  of  corduroy  lines 
the  platform,  and  the  footmen  fall  over  each  other, 
striving  to  catch  the  faces  of  master  or  mistress  as 
the  noisy  lighted  windows  glide  into  the  quiet 
country  peace.  Wearing  a  proud  feather  of  steam, 
the  five  o'clock  train  has  arrived  at  Witley. 

Suddenly  the  platform  is  filled  with  the  most 
distinguished  looking  baggage  that  it  is  in  the 
mind  of  Bond  Street  leather-goods-men  to  imagine. 
No  matter  how  knocked  about  these  trunks  and 
portmanteaus  and  kit-bags  may  seem,  they  have 
the  careless  air  of  belonging  to  a  nobleman.  And, 
indiscriminately  mingled  with  such  baggage  are 
the  hardly  less  distinguished    looking   parcels    of 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  149 

caterers  and  florists:  fish  swathed  in  rushes,  and 
hampers  of  inconceivable  dainties,  game  making 
no  attempt  at  concealment.  Amid  the  elegant 
welter,  dogs,  respectfully  held  in  leash  by  some 
unnamed  representative  of  the  feudal  system,  and 
snuffing  at  the  Nice  labels  on  the  distinguished 
baggage  —  and  everywhere  such  pleasant  words 
of  greeting  as  "  Good  evening,  my  Lord,"  and 
"  Ah  !  there  you  are,  Squiggs  !  " 

Confusion  is  no  name  for  the  scene,  but  what  a 
distinguished  confusion  !  —  and  if  some  great  gen- 
tleman should  occasionally  use  strong  language 
amid  the  chaos,  or  some  gentle  lady  lose  her  pretty 
temper  over  a  lost  hat-box,  —  the  fact  is  felt  to  be 
reassuring  evidence  that  your  lords  and  ladies, 
bless  them,  are  human,  after  all ! 

To  the  watchers  and  waiters  at  Witley  the  five 
train  was  a  sudden  emergence  round  a  bend  of  a 
green  light,  a  shrill  whistle,  and  a  thunder  of  lighted 
cars  — but  for  a  full  hour  its  various  compartments 
had  been  like  so  many  miniature  stages,  each  with 
its  own  characteristic  drama.  One  would  need  to 
be  Balzac  even  to  indicate  the  varieties  of  human 
type  and  human  drama  concentrated  between 
engine  and  luggage-van.  I  desire,  however,  to 
make  no  such  hopeless  experiment  with  the  unat- 
tainable, and  am,  indeed,  well  content  to  confine 
my  attention  to  a  certain  first-class  carriage,  which, 


150  Painted  Shadows 

in  spite  of  the  congested,  not  to  say  overheated, 
condition  of  the  other  carriages,  continued  till 
within  about  five  seconds  of  the  train's  starting  to 
be  occupied  by  one  solitary  majestic  figure.  Still 
no  "  Engaged  "  label  accounted  for  its  comparative 
emptiness.  It  had  needed  but  a  shilling  and  a 
guard's  pass-key  to  work  this  wonder.  No  few 
hurried  passengers  had  tried  the  door  in  vain,  and 
looking  in,  with  the  most  irate  intentions,  had  been 
awed  by  the  haughty  eye-glassed  presence  inside, 
calmly  reading  The  Sporting  Times.  One  or  two 
who  had  seemed  determined  to  enter,  in  spite  of 
such  impressive  appearances,  had  been  cowed 
immediately  by  a  word  from  a  ticket  inspector, 
who,  promising  them  a  seat  elsewhere,  whispered 
that  "  Sir  Ralph  Gilderoy  liked  to  be  alone."  Yes  ! 
the  solitary  reader  of  The  Sporting  Times  was  no 
less  a  personage  than  Sir  Ralph  Gilderoy.  If  the 
name  means  nothing  to  you  —  it  is  hardly  worth 
while  enlightening  your  ignorance.  Still,  for  the 
purpose  of  our  story,  I  must  say  that  Sir  Ralph 
was  the  captain  of  one  of  the  crackest  cavalry  regi- 
ments, and  universally  acclaimed  as  the  handsomest 
man  in  the  British  army  —  which,  you  will  admit, 
is  saying  a  good  deal.  Though  he  paid  no  more 
than  any  other  passenger,  Sir  Ralph  not  unnatu- 
rally took  it  for  granted  that  his  rank  and  distinc- 
tion   entitled    him    to    ten    seats    as    against   your 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  1 5  i 

average  man's  one  —  and  in  this  feeling  there  was 
not  a  railway  employee  but  was  with  him.  Imagine 
then  the  general  consternation  when,  within  a 
second  or  two  of  the  train's  starting,  a  resolute 
young  gentleman,  wildly  racing  up  the  platform, 
with  a  loaded  porter  at  his  heels,  stopped  in  front 
of  Sir  Ralph's  carriage,  and  demanded  that  it 
should  be  opened  to  him,  with  an  air  that  no  offi- 
cial concerned  with  the  five  train  could  mistake  — 
in  spite  of  his  somewhat  Bohemian  appearance,  his 
long  hair,  soft  hat,  and  Liberty  tie.  The  inspector 
shot  a  despairing  look  at  Sir  Ralph,  but  there  was 
no  denying  the  new-comer's  demand  —  a  demand 
made  with  an  air,  I  must  repeat,  quite  as,  perhaps 
even  more,  distinguished  than  Sir  Ralph's  own  — 
so  the  door  was  opened  in  a  twinkling,  and  as  the 
new-comer  seated  himself  in  one  of  the  corners, 
the  train  began  to  move  with  pompous  slowness 
out  of  the  station. 

Sir  Ralph  had  looked  up  from  The  Sporting 
Times  with  great  "  hauteur,"  entirely  lost  upon  the 
impertinent  intruder,  who,  giving  him  a  casual 
glance,  tossed  his  hat  up  into  the  rack,  thus  reveal- 
ing a  shock  of  disgustingly  curly  hair,  and  opening 
a  small  bag  at  his  side,  presently  Httered  his  corner 
of  the  compartment  with  books,  which  he  handled 
with  the  manner  of  a  man  accustomed  to  sizing 
them  up  at  a  glance. 


152  Painted  Shadows 

Presently  he  found  one  that  seemed  to  hold  his 
attention,  and,  tossing  the  rest  into  his  bag,  began 
to  read.  Sir  Ralph  could  hardly  believe  that  any 
human  being  could  be  so  unconscious  (unaffectedly 
unconscious,  he  was  obliged  to  admit)  of  his  exist- 
ence. He  eyed  him  occasionally  over  his  paper. 
He  was  evidently  a  gentleman,  in  spite  of  his 
damnable  Bohemian  airs.  The  face  and  the  hands 
were  too  fine,  and  the  manner  too  quietly  at  ease, 
for  him  to  be  anything  else,  in  spite  of  the  absurdly 
beautiful  blond  hair  and  that  outrageous  sociaHst 
silk  tie. 

Presently  the  intruder  took  out  a  cigarette  case, 
and,  turning  to  Sir  Ralph,  politely  asked  if  he 
objected  to  smoking  —  the  compartment  not  being 
labelled  "smoking."  Sir  Ralph  haughtily  —  did 
not  object.  In  fact  he  had  been  aching  for  a 
cigar  himself,  but  had  disdained  to  ask  the  other's 
permission.  After  a  while  the  intruder,  noticing 
that  The  Sporting  Times  seemed  to  have  given 
out,  quietly  offered  Sir  Ralph  a  batch  of  evening 
papers,  which  Sir  Ralph  could  not  very  well 
refuse  to  accept.  But  he  despised  the  fellow  none 
the  less — in  spite  of  his  further  observation  of  the 
lithe  athleticism  of  the  slim  careless  figure,  the 
strong  throat,  and  the  well-set  shoulders.  And  so 
the  two  made  the  journey  to  Witley  together,  and, 
as  one  can  imagine,  much  to  Sir  Ralph's  disgust, 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  153 

found  that  their  enforced  intimacy  was  only  begin- 
ning. The  intruder  was  out  of  the  carriage  first, 
and  was  immediately  hailed  by  Lady  Blackthorne's 
footman,  who,  taking  care  of  his  hand  baggage,  at 
the  same  moment  saluted  Sir  Ralph,  informing 
both  gentlemen  that  the  carriage  was  waiting  out- 
side the  station.  Think  of  it !  Sir  Ralph  and  the 
stranger  were  evidently  both  guests  at  Lady 
Blackthorne's  house-party,  and  willy-nilly  must 
put  up  with  each  other's  society  from  Saturday 
till  Monday.  Presently  the  carriage  was  rustling 
its  way  among  the  tunnelled  leaves  of  a  Surrey 
lane,  and  the  silence  between  the  two  men  seeming 
to  one  of  them  rather  stupid  — 

"  Apparently,"  said  the  stranger,  "  we  are  to  be 
fellow-guests  of  Lady  Blackthorne.  My  name  is 
Silchester." 

"  Mine,"  answered  the  other,  "  is  Gilderoy." 

Each  knew  the  other  by  name  immediately. 
"The  devil!"  said  Gilderoy  to  himself  "Why 
should  a  man  dress  so  out  of  his  station?"  But, 
after  all,  when  a  man  is  a  lord,  it  does  n't  so  much 
matter  that  he  is  a  poet  as  well  —  and  Lord  Sil- 
chester was  by  way  of  being  quite  a  distinguished 
poet,  considering  that  he  was  barely  thirty  years  old. 

The  revelation  of  the  poet's  rank  did  much 
towards  clearing  the  atmosphere.  Besides,  like 
many    gallant   captains,  Gilderoy  had  a  sneaking 


154  Painted  Shadows 

affection  for  poetry  himself,  and  a  by  no  means 
contemptible  knack  of  turning  out  verses  on  occa- 
sion. Some  of  Lord  Silchester's  love-songs,  he 
was  generous  enough  to  admit,  he  had  sung  now 
and  again  at  regimental  parties ;  for  Gilderoy's 
voice  was  almost  as  fine  as  his  figure.  So,  by  the 
time  the  carriage  brought  them  to  their  destination, 
the  two  men  were  in  a  very  different  relation  to 
each  other  than  when  they  had  entered  it. 

"  I  '11  confess,"  Gilderoy  had  said,  "  that  as  a  rule 
I  love  poetry  as  much  as  I  despise  poets — and  I 
trust  you  will  excuse  my  saying  that  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  meet  a  poet  who  is  a  gentleman  too." 

"  For  my  part,"  Lord  Silchester  laughingly  an- 
swered, "  I  have  always  loved  soldiers  as  much 
as  I  hate  war." 

And  the  two  curiously  dissimilar  men  shook 
hands  on  that. 

Lady  Blackthorne  met  them  in  the  hall,  sur- 
rounded by  a  group  of  young  people  who  had 
evidentl}^  just  loitered  in  from  the  garden  to  greet 
the  new  arrivals.  She  was  in  the  midsummer  of 
her  widowhood,  and  had  the  sincere  air  of  all 
beautiful  people  accustomed  to  worship. 

After  the  first  greetings  were  over^  she  ex- 
plained to  her  two  latest  arrivals,  both  old  friends, 
that  owing  to  the  superflux  of  beautiful  young 
people  in  the  absurdly  small  old  house,  she  was 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  155 

compelled  to  ask  them  to  share  the  big  bedroom 
in  the  west  wing  together.  What  could  be  more 
appropriate  than  that  Mars  and  Apollo  should 
lie  down  in  peace  together ! 

"  Yes,"  laughed  Lord  Silchester,  "  but,  when 
you  say  that,  you  are  only  providing  for  Captain 
Gilderoy  —  where  am  I  to  sleep?" 

The  compliment  was  not  lost  on  Gilderoy,  who, 
if  he  was  professionally  Mars,  was  surely  hand- 
some enough  to  be  regarded  as  an  unprofessional 
Apollo;  and  from  this  moment  there  was  quite  a 
danger  of  the  two  men  becoming  friends. 

This  gay  prelude  of  greeting  over,  they  went  up 
to  their  room  to  dress  for  dinner.  For  all  Lady 
Blackthorne's  depreciation,  it  was  a  huge  old 
room  with  two  immense  canopied  beds,  on  one 
of  which  the  soft-voiced  man-servant  deputed  to 
take  care  of  these  two  distinguished  gentlemen 
had  already  spread  out,  with  that  impressive  rev- 
erence peculiar  to  English  men-serv-ants,  the  even- 
ing clothes  of  Lord  Silchester. 

But  Sir  Ralph  Gilderoy's  portmanteau  was  still 
unemptied,  and,  as  the  two  men  had  entered  the 
room,  Johnson  had  taken  Sir  Ralph  aside  and  re- 
spectfully whispered  him  of  a  strange  and  rather 
embarrassing  occurrence  —  an  occurrence  concern- 
ing which  all  his  ingrained  reverence  for  rank 
could  hardly  rob  him  of  a  respectful  smile. 


156  Painted  Shadows 

Gilderoy  was  by  no  means  without  humour, 
and,  after  the  first  flash  of  annoyance  at  what  had 
been  told  him,  he  broke  out  into  a  great  laugh. 

"  Silchester,"  he  said,  "  come  over  here.  Here  *s 
a  go!     What  do  you  think  of  this?  " 

I  have  spoken  of  the  distinguished  confusion  of 
baggage  at  Witley  station.  Here  was  a  delicious 
result  of  it.  No  wonder  Johnson  had  lost  some 
of  his  traditional  reserve  as,  opening  the  Captain's 
portmanteau,  instead  of  finding  there  the  faultless 
shirt  and  so  on,  his  astonished  eyes  beheld  — 
well !  it  was  simply  this.  Some  young  lady  had 
been  travelling  by  the  five  train  whose  portmanteau 
so  closely  resembled  Sir  Ralph's  that  a  highly 
romantic  exchange  had  been  made  by  the  dis- 
tracted porters.  Readers  with  imagination  will 
need  no  further  details.  As  Johnson  modestly 
displayed  the  portmanteau  to  the  noblemen,  Lord 
Silchester  gave  a  quick  little  start,  unnoted  by  his 
companion,  and  thereupon  rolled  upon  his  bed  in 
fits  of  laughter.  But  Sir  Ralph,  not  being  a  poet, 
was  more  sentimental  —  that  is,  after  dismissing 
Johnson  with  a  nonchalant  reassurance  that  no 
doubt  the  mistake  would  soon  be  discovered  by 
the  lady  unknown — for  no  initials  or  label  upon 
the  bag  gave  clue  to  the  identity  of  its  owner  — 
and  his  own  bag  restored  to  him. 

"  Dear  little  girl,"  said  the  Captain,  whose  only 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  157 

weakness,  one  may  say,  was  woman.  "  I  wonder 
who  the  deuce  she  is.  She  has  evidently  been 
paying  a  shopping  visit  to  town,"  he  continued, 
tenderly  pointing  to  a  smart  little  walking  skirt, 
and,  in  spite  of  every  wish  to  do  the  gentlemanly 
thing,  noting  one  or  two  feminine  trifles,  such  as 
a  particularly  small  and  elegant  pair  of  walking 
shoes,  and  a  veil  of  a  pattern  so  original  you 
could  hardly  fail  to  recognise  it  again.  "  There 
is  something  deucedly  touching  about  a  woman, 
Silchester  .  .  .  Don't  you  think?" 

For  answer,  Lord  Silchester  once  more  doubled 
himself  into  convulsions,  in  which  Sir  Ralph  could 
not  but  make  believe  to  join. 

"  Forgive  me,"  gasped  Silchester,  when  at  last 
he  had  recovered  himself,  "  but  you  will  admit 
that  it  is  funny.  Thank  Heaven  it  happened  to 
you  instead  of  to  me  !  You  can  carry  it  off  all 
right  —  but  I  should  never  have  heard  the  end 
of  it." 

But  Silchester's  laughter  had  been  so  whole- 
hearted as  almost  to  nettle  Gilderoy  with  a  suspi- 
cion that  his  very  newly  made  friend  had  a  private 
joy  in  his  discomfiture,  which  suspicion  Silchester 
perceiving  made  haste  to  allay  by  a  subdual  of 
his  mirth,  and  a  promise  to  himself  that  he  would 
some  day  make  it  up  to  Gilderoy. 

The  way  in  which  Sir  Ralph  took  the  inevitable 


158  Painted  Shadows 

chaffing  at  dinner  was  a  masterpiece  of  savoir- 
faire.  The  apparition  of  so  famous  a  dandy  in 
the  ante-prandial  drawing-room  in  his  railway 
tweeds  naturally  provoked  attention,  and  when 
Sir  Ralph  whispered  the  explanation  to  his  host- 
ess, she  again  laughed  so  unmercifully  that  the 
attempt  to  rob  the  rest  of  the  company  of  the 
joke  was  in  vain. 

Over  dinner  a  facetious  bishop  made  a  learned 
reference  to  Hercules  and  Omphale,  which  fell 
rather  flat  in  an  unclassical  age ;  and  Sir  Ralph 
was  made  the  subject  of  many  a  flippancy  of 
which  naturally  he  never  heard. 

"  Really,"  whispered  one  wag  to  his  partner, 
"  Sir  Ralph  is  too  disgracefully  decollete." 

"  But  what  fine  pearls  he  is  wearing !  "  was 
the  wicked  response. 

"  Sir  Ralph  is  sweetly  pretty  to-night,  don't  you 
think?"  said  another. 

"A  little  too  much  of  the  ingenue,  though," 
was  the  reply. 

"  I  'm  not  sure  but  that  a  high  bodice  would  n't 
suit  him  better,  after  all,"  said  another  wit.  "  There 
is  a  distinction  about  the  high  bodice  that  would  go 
better  with  his  severe  style  of  beauty  .  .  .  " 

"  Besides,  it  is  hardly  modest  to  wear  one's 
scars  so  low,"  said  another. 

"  But  we    must  n't   forget   that  this   is  his   first 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  159 

season.  When  he  has  been  out  a  Httle  longer,  he 
will  soon  learn  to  make  more  of  himself  ..." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  other,  "  we  must  wait  for 
his  first  ball  really  to  judge." 

While  poor  Sir  Ralph  was  thus  being  made  a 
motley  to  the  view,  a  parallel  scene  was  being 
enacted  in  a  country  house  some  six  miles  away. 
The  two  beautiful  daughters  of  the  Earl  of  Wych- 
mere  had  run  up  to  their  rooms  to  change  their 
frocks  for  dinner.  As  they  entered  the  bedroom 
which  they  shared  together,  laughing  over  certain 
reminiscences  of  their  trip  to  town,  their  devoted 
maids  were  busy  emptying  their  dress-boxes,  hat- 
boxes,  etc.,  and  returning  the  various  articles  to 
their  accustomed  places  in  wardrobe  and  closet. 
A  woman's  baggage  is  necessarily  more  voluminous 
than  a  man's,  and  the  maids  were  hardly  through 
with  their  task  as  the  young  ladies  entered  the 
room.  They  had  hardly  entered,  however,  when 
Anisette  threw  up  her  hands,  with  a  little  scream. 

What  could  be  the  matter  !     Look  ! 

Well ! 

So  it  was  into  this  fragrant  place  that  the  fault- 
less shirts  so  missed  by  Johnson  had  wandered  — 
and  the  worst  of  it  was,  or  the  best,  that  Captain 
Gilderoy's  name,  of  the  — th  Hussars,  was  there  on 
the  leather  so  plain  as  immediately  to  replace  a 
possible  mystery  by  a  fascinating  certainty.     Cap- 


i6o  Painted  Shadows 

tain  Gilderoy's  evening  clothes  !  Well !  —  and 
Lady  Teresa  hid  her  face  in  her  thick  gold  hair, 
already  loosened  for  her  maid,  and  her  white 
shoulders  shook  with  laughter,  —  probably  at  the 
very  moment  that  Lord  Silchester  was  rolling  in 
absurd  convulsions  over  the  corresponding  discov- 
ery made  by  Captain  Gilderoy. 

Then  she  and  her  raven-haired  sister  laughed  as 
if  their  hearts  would  break.  Lord  Silchester's 
laughter,  as  I  have  said,  was  scarcely  less  hearty  at 
the  same  moment;  Gilderoy's  laughter,  too,  had 
been  full  of  courage,  and  the  laughter  at  the 
dinner-table  had  been  vividly  infectious  ;  but  there 
was  no  laughter  concerned  in  all  this  little  comedy 
to  be  compared  with  the  laughter  of  Lady  Teresa 
and  Lady  Mary  Wychmere,  as  they  discovered 
Captain  Gilderoy's  evening  clothes. 

Time  and  again,  they  tried  to  stop  it,  so  that 
they  might  speak  a  reasonable  word  to  each  other 
—  but  no  !  it  was  impossible  —  and  once  more  they 
hid  their  faces,  as  over  their  shoulders  swept  the 
white  cataracts  of  laughter. 

It  was  a  pity  that  Gilderoy  could  not  have  been 
there  to  hear  that  beautiful  laughter,  —  for  he,  of 
all  men,  with  his  manly  sentiment  about  women, 
would  have  realised  the  lovely  freshness,  the 
brook-like  spontaneity  of  it.  As  Lady  Teresa 
laughed,  you  naturally  thought  of  her  thick,  sun- 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  i6i 

rippled  hair,  and  as  you  looked  at  her  hair,  you 
thought  of  the  rippling  ringlets  of  her  laughter. 
O  was  there  anything  in  the  world  quite  so  good 
to  hear  as  Lady  Teresa's  laughter !  And,  when 
she  and  her  sister  laughed  together,  the  dullest 
imagination  dreamed  of  the  Guadalquivir. 

I  will  not  say  that  it  was  well  that  Captain  Gilde- 
roy  did  not  keep  his  love-letters  in  his  evening 
clothes  —  yet  I  must  confess  that  his  effects  were 
subjected  to  an  irresistible  curiosity,  such  as,  of 
course.  Lady  Teresa's  escaped. 

"It's  too  bad  to  have  to  send  them  back,  isn't 
it?"  she  said,  laughing,  "but  of  course  we  must. 
Just  one  more  look  at  these  beautiful  golf-stock- 
ings—  and  do  you  think,  Mary,  I  might  steal  this 
adorable  tie  .  .  .  and  O  do  look  at  those  open- 
worked  socks  ..." 

"  What  dainty  things  soldiers  wear  ..." 
laughed  Lady  Mary;  and  then  the  bag  was  re- 
luctantly closed,  and  instructions  given  for  its 
immediate  conveyance  to  Lady  Blackthorne's. 

It  arrived  during  dinner,  and,  when  an  hour  or 
so  after  Lady  Blackthorne  duly  informed  Sir 
Ralph  of  its  arrival,  she  —  though,  of  course, 
knowing  quite  well  —  denied  any  knowledge  of 
whence  it  came.  It  had  come,  she  said  laughingly, 
under  cover  of  night,  in  a  carriage  with  the  blinds 
closely  drawn,  and  had  been  brought  to  the  ser- 

II 


1 62  Painted  Shadows 

vants'  door  by  a  masked  man  with  a  drawn  re- 
volver in  his  hand  .  .  . 

Gilderoy  took  his  roasting  Hke  the  good  fellow 
he  was,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  in  his  heart,  which 
was,  as  I  have  hinted,  far  more  romantically  made 
than  his  exterior  indicated,  thought  far  more  of  the 
romantic  side  of  the  quaint  incident  than  of  the 
ludicrous.  They  could  laugh  all  they  pleased  — 
but  Gilderoy  personally  felt  that  he  had  the  best 
of  it.  Chance  had  selected  him  for  a  charming 
suggestion  of  possible  adventure.  The  strange 
portmanteau  of  Beauty  had  come  to  him  —  instead 
of,  say,  to  Silchester. 

"  I  consider  it,"  he  said  laughingly,  in  answer  to 
some  more  badinage  of  Silchester's,  as  the  two 
men  were  turning  in,  "  a  personal  compliment 
from  Fate  —  and  you  know,  well  enough,  that  you 
are  only  jealous  because  it  did  n't  happen  to  you." 

At  this  last  remark  Silchester  once  more  fell 
into  absurd  hysterics. 

"  How  deucedly  touching  women  are,  eh !  Gil- 
deroy? "  he  continued,  when  he  had  recovered  his 
breath.  "  And,"  he  added,  "  to  be  quite  serious, 
have  you  ever  thought  how  romantic  a  woman's 
belongings  are,  compared  with  a  man's  !  You  fell 
in  love  with  those  little  shoes,  I  saw  at  a  glance, 
and  would  probably  have  kissed  them  but  for  the 
presence  of  Johnson.      Now,  I  wonder  what  the 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  163 

mysterious  lady  thought  of  those  elegant  bedroom 
slippers  there.  Tread  upon  them  softly,  Gilderoy 
—  who  knows  but  that  before  she  sent  them  back 
she  kissed  them  on  each  dear  little  sole.  Perhaps 
even  she  leaned  out  of  her  window  in  the  moon- 
light— leaned  out  and  gathered  a  climbing  rose  — 
gathered  it,  Gilderoy,  with  her  beautiful  white  arm 
gleaming  in  the  moonlight,  and  tucked  it  into  one 
of  the  touching  toes  —  are  you  sure  you  looked 
properly  before  you  put  them  on?  If  I  were  you, 
I  should  have  another  look  ..." 

For  answer,  Gilderoy  took  off  the  slippers  and 
flung  them  with  excellent  aim  at  his  already  re- 
cumbent companion,  and  himself  thereupon  took 
shelter  between  the  sheets. 

"  I  say,"  he  said  presently,  "  I  suppose  you 
have  n't  a  volume  of  your  poems  with  you.  I 
don't  feel  in  the  least  sleepy  ..." 

"  One  for  you  !"  laughed  Silchester;  "no!  I'm 
afraid  I  have  n't,  but  I  think  I  can  remember  a 
very  short  one  that  exactly  fits  your  case  ..." 

"  Go  on,"  answered  Gilderoy  dreamily,  out  of 
the  darkness. 

And  Silchester  recited,  with  mock  unction: 

Long  after  you  are  dead 
I  will  kiss  the  shoes  of  your  feet, 
And  the  long,  bright  hair  of  your  head 
Will  go  on  being  sweet ; 


164  Painted  Shadows 

In  each  little  thing  you  wore 
We  shall  go  on  meeting,  love  ; 
In  a  ring  we  shall  meet, 
In  a  fan  we  shall  meet, 
Or  a  long-forgotten  glove. 
Long  after  you  are  dead, 
O  the  bright  hair  of  your  head. 
And  the  shoes  of  your  little  feet ! 

"  I  '11  forgive  you  the  chaff  for  the  verses,"  re- 
torted Gilderoy.  "  You  are  not  worthy  of  having 
written  them,  Silchester  —  strange  chaps,  you 
poets — you  seem  to  feel  everything,  yet  feel 
nothing.  Say  them  again  "  ;  and  Silchester  laugh- 
ingly repeated. 

"  Will  you  copy  them  out  for  me  to-morrow?  " 

"  Certainly !  "  answered  the  poet,  with  difficulty 
stifling  a  new  convulsion  which  he  really  felt  to  be 
too  bad  in  the  present  condition  of  the  Captain's 
feelings. 

"  How  did  those  first  two  lines  go?  "  asked  the 
Captain,  after  a  while. 

But  the  poet  was  fast  asleep. 

In  a  day  or  two  the  various  members  of  the 
party  which  had  been  so  diverted  by  Captain 
Gilderoy's  adventure  were  scattered  about  the 
counties,  taking  their  shining  places  in  other  social 
constellations,  and,  a  fortnight  afterwards.  Sir  Ralph 
was  staying  down  in  Devonshire  with  a  friend  to 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  165 

whom  he  was  deeply  attached,  on  account  of  an 
exceptionally  fine  trout  stream  that  ran  through 
his  domain.  Gilderoy,  like  all  real  soldiers,  had  a 
great  capacity  for,  and  delight  in,  silence  ;  and  that, 
together  with  the  love  of  the  sport  for  its  own  sake, 
made  him  an  ardent  fisherman.  He  asked  nothing 
better  than  a  long,  lonely  day  with  his  rod,  and  a 
wandering  meditative  stream  ;  and,  if  some  days  he 
had  bad  luck  with  his  fishing,  he  made  up  for  it  in 
dreaming.  He  would,  of  course,  have  been  the  last 
to  admit  it,  but  not  infrequently  on  his  fishing  ex- 
cursions he  might  have  been  found  under  a  haw- 
thorn bush  by  the  stream's  side  scribbling  verses, 
instead  of  catching  trout.  For,  indeed,  as  Lady 
Blackthorne  had  implied.  Mars  and  Apollo  were 
always  closely  related. 

On  the  particular  afternoon,  however,  on  which 
I  desire  next  to  introduce  him  to  the  reader,  he 
had  taken  his  rod  seriously,  as  the  silver  and  rose 
in  his  fishing  basket  bore  witness.  It  is  true  that 
now  and  again,  as  the  afternoon  sunshine  fell  softlj^ 
about  him  through  the  trees,  and  gleamed  here 
and  flitted  there,  lighting  up  the  secrecies  of  the 
stream,  that  his  fancy  would  go  a-wandering  —  as 
the  bravest  man's  might,  under  conditions  sugges- 
tive of  romance  even  more  alluring  than  the  heavi- 
est trout  that  was  ever  glazed  into  immortality  in 
gun-room  or  country  inn.     There  have  been  those 


1 66  Painted  Shadows 

who,  ostensibly  going  a-fishing,  have  seen  the 
naiads;  and  it  must  be  difficult,  I  should  think, 
for  the  most  prosaic  nature  to  spend  a  whole  day 
by  a  stream-side  without  some  haunted  feeling  of 
the  possible  apparition  of  some  mysterious  beauty, 
or  the  sense  that  something  wonderful  was  about 
to  happen  to  him,  something  even  more  wonderful 
than  —  trout.  At  last  this  feehng  threw  its  spell  so 
completely  over  Gilderoy,  as  the  golden  bloom  on 
the  afternoon  grew  deeper,  that  he  decided  he  had 
caught  all  the  trout  he  cared  about,  and  threw 
himself  down  by  the  stream-side  in  a  mood  of 
enchanted  reverie,  much  more  in  the  spirit  of 

"  Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
In  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream," 

than    any  of  his   friends  could   have  believed  of 
him. 

As  he  thus  lay,  with  his  eyes  idly  fixed  on  a 
shining  reach  of  water  up-stream,  a  bend  of  glory 
before  the  stream  entered  a  Delphic  avenue  of 
muttering  shade,  he  noticed,  suddenly  specking 
the  broad  swathe  of  unrippled  light,  a  tiny  black 
object,  like  some  small  water-bird  in  the  mid- 
current.  A  curiosity,  as  idle  as  his  reverie,  kept 
his  eyes  on  it  till  it  disappeared  in  the  shadows, 
and  kept  them  waiting  in  idle  expectancy  for  its 
reappearance  in  another  space  of  light  a  k\v  yards 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  167 

away  from  him.  Who  has  not  watched  the  adven- 
tures of  some  broken  branch,  or  equally  important 
object,  with  the  caprices  of  a  rocky  stream,  held 
one's  breath  at  its  dangers,  drawn  breath  again, 
and  even  hurrahed,  as  it  detached  itself  from 
some  ensnaring  obstacle,  and  once  more  floated 
triumphantly  on  its  way?  In  just  this  spirit 
Gilderoy  awaited  the  emergence  into  daylight  of 
the  tiny  black  object,  whatever  it  might  be,  and 
silently  made  bets  with  himself  on  its  chances  of 
surviving  the  unknown  perils  of  the  shadows.  So 
long,  however,  was  this  in  coming  about  that  he 
had  given  up  hope,  and  was  on  the  point  even 
of  forgetting  it,  when,  lo  !  it  suddenly  appeared 
on  the  edge  of  the  light,  coquetting  with  an  eddy. 
Gilderoy,  who  had  looked  upon  the  five-pound 
note  which  he  had  laid  upon  it  as  lost,  sat  up 
and  boyishly  clapped  his  hands. 

"Bravo!"  he  cried,  sitting  up,  and,  alert  again 
with  the  keenness  of  a  sportsman,  "  Bravo  !  —  but 
what  the  deuce  is  it?  ...  "  for,  though  it  was 
still  too  far  away  for  him  clearly  to  distinguish  it, 
there  was  something  about  its  shape  that  piqued 
his  curiosity.  Presently  it  swung  out  of  the  eddy, 
and  started  swiftly  again  on  the  full  current. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  Gilderoy  shouted,  suddenly  spring- 
ing up,  and  splashing  through  the  shallow  stream, 
careless  of  his  beautiful    golf-stockings.     He  was 


1 68  Painted  Shadows 

just  in  time  to  save  the  little  derelict  from  plunging 
down  a  small  fall,  at  the  bottom  of  which  it  would 
probably  have  been  sunk  for  ever  —  though  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  rather  than  have  allowed 
that  to  happen,  Gilderoy  would  have  instantly 
stripped  and  dived  for  it —  for  beyond  all  shadow 
of  doubt  this  little  dainty  craft  that  had  come 
gliding  so  bravely  down  the  stream  .  .  , 

Well,  when  Gilderoy  had  cried  "Bravo"  and 
splashed  in,  what  was  it  he  had  seen?  A  woman's 
shoe  delicately  floating  to  him  —  out  of  fairy- 
land ! 

Remembering  how  deucedly  touching  woman 
seemed  to  Gilderoy,  you  can  imagine  how  the 
incident  appealed  to  him.  A  woman's  lonely 
little  shoe  thus  floating  all  unprotected  and  un- 
cared  for  on  this  perilous  stream.  This  he  would 
have  felt  on  general  principles,  but,  please,  further 
imagine,  if  you  can,  his  feelings  when  he  recognised 
the  shoe ! 

Yes !  as  I  began  to  say,  beyond  all  shadow  of 
doubt,  this  was  one  of  her  shoes,  one  of  those  two 
that,  as  Silchester  had  truthfully  said,  he  had  felt 
like  kissing  that  evening  at  Lady  Blackthorne's. 

Seated  on  the  bank,  he  turned  it  over  and  over, 
and  presently  devoted  his  attention  to  drying  it 
reverently  by  means  of  the  long  grass  and  a  hand- 
kerchief    There  was    no    doubt   at   all !     It   was 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  169 

hers.  He  would  have  known  it  anywhere  —  even 
in  a  shoe-shop.  Bless  it !  And  this  time  he  kissed 
it  without  shame  — 

"  Long  after  you  are  dead 
I  will  kiss  the  shoes  of  your  feet  ..." 

He  had  for  days  been  vaguely  in  love  with  the 
unknown  owner  of  this  little  shoe.  But  this  second 
strange  accident  settled  it.  Accident !  No  doubt 
materialistic  critics  might  call  it  mere  coincidence  — 
and  if  Silchester  had  been  there,  he  would  un- 
questionably have  had  another  attack  of  his  absurd 
hysterics.  Coincidence  indeed !  Be  reasonable. 
Could  anything  be  a  plainer  indication  of  the  pur- 
poses of  Fate  than  that  this  very  shoe  should  thus 
come  into  his  hand  a  whole  day's  journey  from 
the  place  where  he  had  first  seen  it  —  and  in  so 
manifestly  miraculous  a  fashion  !  Anyhow,  what 
does  the  puerile  criticism  of  the  spectator  ever 
matter  to  a  man  in  love?  And  yes!  Gilderoy  was 
in  love  —  he  said  it  out  loud  to  the  stream,  and, 
if  any  trout  were  still  alive  in  his  basket,  they 
heard  it  too ;  not  to  speak  of  various  birds  that 
thereupon  flew  off  in  all  directions  like  messenger- 
boys  to  tell  the  whole  wide  world  that  Captain 
Gilderoy  was  in  love !  In  love !  with  whom  ! 
Realism  would  answer  with  a  number  three  shoe  ! 
But  there  is  a  magic    intuition  in  love  which,  as 


I  JO  Painted  Shadows 

it  was  possible  to  guess  at  Hercules  from  his  foot, 
so  is  it  an  easy  matter  for  a  lover  to  build  up 
beauty  from  her  shoe  !     Ex  pede   Venere  ! 

While  Gilderoy  was  thus  sentimentalising  over 
Beauty's  slipper,  Beauty,  about  a  mile  up  stream, 
had  awakened  to  a  more  practical  concern  for 
it.  It  was,  no  doubt,  all  the  world  to  Gilderoy, 
but  it  was  even  more  to  Lady  Teresa  Wychmere, 
with  two  or  three  miles  of  woodland  between  her 
and  Wildwoods  Manor.  Suddenly  news  of  her 
distress  seemed  to  be  carried  on  the  breeze  to 
Gilderoy. 

"  Of  course.  By  Jove  !  "  he  exclaimed,  picking 
up  his  rod  and  basket,  and  starting  up  stream. 
"  What  a  fool  I  am  !  "  I  may  be  too  late  to  help 
her,  with  my  confounded  sentimentalising  ..." 
Need  one  say  that  what  he  meant  was :  "  I  may  be 
too  late  to  see  her !  " 

So  up  the  stream-side  hastened  Gilderoy  —  and, 
meanwhile,  if  ever  there  was  a  picture  of  beauty  in 
distress,  surely  it  was  the  Lady  Teresa.'  And  she  was 
Beauty  Courageous  as  well,  and  full  of  merriment  at 
her  plight.  Some  one  once  said  that  her  laughter 
was  like  the  laughter  of  a  nymph  at  the  bottom  of  a 
well  —  and,  as  she  laughed  to  herself  by  the  stream- 
side,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  tell  whether  it 
were  she  or  the  stream  that  made  so  happy  a 
rippling  in  the  solitude. 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  171 

But  to  think  of  the  stream  running  off  with  her 
shoe  in  that  way  —  that  innocent-looking  stream. 
An  hour  ago  the  absolute  solitude  of  the  place, 
and  the  luxurious  afternoon  sunshine  laden  with 
sleepy  perfume,  had  stirred  her  wild  young  senses, 
just  as,  a  mile  below,  it  had  touched  to  sentiment 
the  martial  heart  of  Gilderoy;  and  the  irresistible 
lure  of  running  water,  so  fresh  and  cool,  and  shot 
with  a  myriad  golden  reflections,  had  so  possessed 
her  that  she  forgot  what  a  great  girl  she  was  now- 
adays, and,  drawing  off  her  shoes  and  stockings, 
had  delighted  to  paddle  up  and  down  the  rocky 
shallows  like  a  child.  There  was  no  Antaeus  pres- 
ent to  report  the  lovely  picture  she  made,  and  to 
attempt  to  imagine  it  would  more  than  likely 
seriously  offend  a  certain  gentleman  who  has  long 
since  set  the  seal  of  a  lover's  ownership  on  all  that 
beauty. 

But  there  can  surely  be  no  harm  in  saying  how 
bravely  her  beautiful  head  caught  the  sun,  and  how 
her  thick  gold  hair,  loosened  with  the  glee  of  her 
sport,  shone  and  glittered,  as  though  all  the  gold 
in  the  world  had  been  heaped  up  there  in  one  ex- 
quisite consolidation.  How  vivid  with  the  pure 
beam  of  life  were  her  fearless  blue  eyes,  hov,'  filled 
with  the  fire  and  sap  of  existence  her  noble  body, 
so  lithely  poised  amid  the  inequalities  of  the  rocky 
stream.     Yes  !  —  and  at  the   risk  of  offending  the 


172  Painted  Shadows 

gentleman  just  referred  to,  it  must  be  said  that  the 
feet  of  Nicolete,  by  the  side  of  which,  that  night  she 
fled  from  Beaucaire,  the  daisies  themselves  seemed 
dark,  cannot  have  been  whiter  than  those  for  which, 
though  as  yet  they  knew  it  not,  one  shoe  was  al- 
ready missing;  for,  while  the  Lady  Teresa  was  thus 
disporting  herself,  one  of  her  shoes  had  silently 
slipped  from  the  rock  on  which  it  had  been  in- 
securely placed,  and  been  eagerly  carried  off  by 
the  river  —  to  experience  adventures  with  which 
we  are  already  acquainted. 

After  she  had  thus  played  the  girl  again  for  some 
little  time,  her  charming  unconsciousness  was 
suddenly  succeeded  by  an  abrupt  return  to  her 
grown-up  womanhood  —  and  the  blood  mounted  to 
her  cheeks  as  she  hastily  sought  the  river  bank 
with  its  protective  conventionalities  in  the  shape  of 
shoes  and  stockings.  What  had  she  done !  For 
all  she  knew,  the  woods  were  full  of  eyes  — poachers 
at  the  very  least.  And  what  a  head  of  hair  !  With 
a  curious  instinct  of  woman,  it  was  her  loosened 
hair  to  which  she  gave  her  first  attention !  Let- 
ting it  fall  down  in  a  Danae-shower  about  her  —  O 
unseeing  eyes  of  the  woodland  !  —  she  had  quickly 
coiled  it  up  again  into  a  presentable'  crown  of 
glory.  And  now  her  stockings  —  and  now  her  — 
shoes ! 

But.  as  we  know,  only  one  shoe  remained. 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  173 

Then  it  was  that  she  laughed  and  laughed  at  the 
absurd  lark  of  it,  and  then  it  was  —  and  providen- 
tially not  a  moment  earlier  —  that  Gilderoy,  coming 
up-stream,  heard  a  laughter  that,  to  repeat  a  phrase 
of  his  which  I  have  already  used,  seemed  like  the 
laughter  of  a  nymph  at  the  bottom  of  a  well. 
Strangely  enough,  too,  there  was  something  about 
its  timbre  that  recalled  Silchester. 

Lady  Teresa  saw  him  a  few  yards  away,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  stream  —  such,  at  first  sight, 
seemed  his  bad  luck  —  saw  him  long  enough  to 
make  two  observations :  first,  that  he  was  carrying 
her  slipper,  and,  second,  that  she  had  seen  him  —  or, 
rather,  some  of  him —  before !  The  second  observa- 
tion puzzled  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  remember- 
ing, she  bent  her  beautiful  head  on  her  knees,  and 
laughed  again,  so  whole-heartedly  that  Gilderoy 
was  more  and  more  reminded  how  Silchester  had 
laughed  that  night  at  Lady  Blackthorne's. 

He,  on  his  part,  had  not  failed  to  notice  her  shoe- 
less foot,  and,  happy  at  heart  at  the  sight,  her 
laughter  only  made  him  the  happier.  As  the  lost 
shoe  had  begun  it,  surely  her  laughter  completed 
their  introduction.  When  she  lifted  up  her  beau- 
tiful head  to  make  an  excuse  for  her  fooHshness, 
she  found  that  he  had  already  forded  the  stream 
and  stood  by  her  side  with  her  shoe  in  his  hand. 

"  How  good  you  are !  please  forgive   me,"  she 


174  Painted  Shadows 

said.  "  How  can  I  thank  you  —  "  and  then  she 
added  archly — "Sir  Ralph  Gilderoy  ..." 

"  You  know  me !  "  said  Gilderoy,  in  rapturous 
surprise. 

"  Some  of  you,  at  any  rate,  Sir  Ralph,"  she  an- 
swered ;  and  then  giving  him  a  lovely  mischievous 
smile,  she  added  :  "  I  'm  so  glad  you  got  those 
beautiful  golf-stockings  back  safely  ..." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  ..."  gasped  Gilderoy. 

"  Yes !  "  she  nodded,  as  she  fastened  on  her 
recovered  shoe.     "  Yes  !     I  mean  to  say  ..." 

"  But,  becoming  as  they  are,"  she  added  after  a 
pause  chiefly  occupied  by  the  running  of  the  river, 
"  I  think  you  had  better  come  up  with  me  to  the 
Manor,  and  have  them  changed  for  dry  ones.  My 
brother,  Lord  Silchester,  whom  you  know,  is  stay- 
ing there  with  me,  and  he  will  look  after  you  ..." 

"  Lord  Silchester  is  your  brother?  " 

"  Yes  !     Did  n't  you  know  ..." 

"  Now  I  begin  to  understand  ..." 

"  Understand  what?" 

"  Well,  why  Silchester  laughed  so — and  laughed 
so  like  you  —  the  night  our  portmanteaux 
crossed  ..." 

And  so  the  two  strolled  up  together  through  the 
woods  to  the  Manor. 


Beauty's  Portmanteau  175 

"  Fancy  your  remembering  my  shoe,"  said  the 
Lady  Teresa. 

"  Yes  !  but  fancy  your  remembering  my  golf- 
stockings,"  said  Gilderoy. 

And  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 


OLD  SILVER 


12 


OLD   SILVER 

WHENEVER  one  of  those  memory-days 
is  coming  round  which  give  me  the  op- 
portunity of  showing  VVcll-Beloved  how 
much  I  love  her,  and  how  glad  I  am  that  she  came 
to  be  born,  I  invariably  turn  my  steps,  often  weeks 
beforehand,  to  the  Shop  of  Dreams.  This  is  an 
antiquity  shop  whose  window,  filled  with  old  silver, 
old  lace,  old  violins,  and  such-like  matters  of 
memory  and  dream,  is  no  little  of  an  anachronism 
in  one  of  the  busiest  shopping  streets  of  New 
York.  The  elevated  railway  thunders  but  a  block 
away,  and  cross-town  cars  flash  by — the  fan  that 
once  waved  in  the  hand  of  the  Pompadour,  or  the 
slippers  that  once  held  the  little  feet  of  Marie 
Antoinette. 

One  of  the  ways  in  which  I  contrive  to  retain 
the  affection  of  Well-Beloved  is  by  my  ministering 
to  her  passion  for  old  silver.  It  comes  over  her 
at  more  or  less  regular  intervals,  and  I  am  always 
on  the  lookout  to  appease  it,  and  often  it  happens 
that  just  as  her  love  seems  to  be  slipping  away 


i8o  Painted  Shadows 

from  me  I  call  it  back  by  the  luckily  timed  gift  of 
a  filigree  cardcase,  a  pair  of  Regency  shoe-buckles, 
or  a  fancifully  devised  vinaigrette. 

Wonderfully  unlike  all  other  women,  Well- 
Beloved  is  unlike  them  in  this  also,  that  she  cares 
nothing  for  modern  trinkets,  however  costly,  and 
takes  no  heed  of  the  great  goldsmiths'  windows 
as  we  walk  the  streets  together.  Three  parts  of 
the  pleasure  in  her  various  bibelots  is  the  touch  of 
human  history  upon  them,  the  faint  fragrance 
of  forgotten  dreams.  Modern  jewels,  however 
beautiful,  are,  to  her  way  of  thinking,  mere  raw 
material.  "  They  have  never  lived,"  she  is  fond  of 
saying.  "  Wait  till  they  come,  as  some  day  they 
surely  will,  to  our  Shop  of  Dreams,  with  the  mark 
of  tears  upon  them,  tarnished  with  sighs,  worn 
with  kisses  —  then  they  will  be  really  beautiful. 
But  as  yet  they  mean  nothing.  Their  value  is 
still  to  come." 

Thus  I  have  never  bought  diamonds  for  Well- 
Beloved,  for  they  would  give  her  no  pleasure; 
but,  as  I  said,  whenever  a  red-letter  day  falls  to  be 
celebrated,  I  turn  my  feet  to  the  Shop  of  Dreams, 
and,  after  long  inspection  of  its  storied  window, 
all  that  romantic  wreckage  thrown  up  there  by  the 
sea  of  life  as  upon  a  shore,  I  turn  the  handle  of 
the  gate  of  ivory  and  enter  into  a  hades  of  Empire 
frivolities,  eight-day  clocks,  damascened    armour, 


Old  Silver  i8i 

cameos  from  the  bosoms  of  our  grandmothers,  old 
snuff-boxes,  and  dead  men's  rings. 

The  proprietor  is  himself  no  h'ttle  of  a  senti- 
mentalist, and  he  is  attracti\-ely  learned  in  the 
history  of  the  dream-things  it  is  his  charming 
business  to  sell.  He  and  I  are  long  since  old 
friends,  and  he  allows  me  to  drop  in  and  prowl 
about  the  nooks  and  corners  of  the  centuries 
without  a  thought  of  traffic.  Many  are  the 
hours  I  have  spent  with  him  recalling  the  story 
of  this  or  that  relic,  and  he  is  long  since  well 
aware  of  "  madame's "  insatiable  appetite  for  old 
silver. 

A  little  while  ago  I  called  in  and  found  him  in 
the  characteristic  act  of  examining  an  antique 
through  the  little  magnifying  glass  which  is  always 
more  or  less  screwed  into  his  right  eye,  and  with 
which,  as  I  tell  him,  I  verily  believe  he  goes  to  bed 
at  nights.  He  looked  up  at  me  and  nodded,  with- 
out removing  the  glass. 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment,"  he  said,  returning  to 
his  antique,  "  I  have  something  to  show  you." 

When  he  had  completed  his  examination,  he 
called  me  from  my  contemplation  of  an  exception- 
ally fine  Etruscan  vase,  and,  taking  a  packet  from 
a  drawer,  began  to  unfold  it. 

"  What  will  madame  say  to  this,  do  you  think?" 
he    said,    smiling,    as  he  revealed  a  superb   silver 


1 82  Painted  Shadows 

cross,  carved  with  vine-leaves  and  set  in  its  centre 
with  a  large  four-sided  amethyst. 

"  I  say !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  it's  a  fine  thing,  isn't  it?  They  don't 
often  come  into  one's  hands.  A  veritable  bishop's 
cross.  French,  of  course.  Early  eighteenth- 
century,  I  should  say.  You  notice  the  mitre  ;  and 
the  amethyst,  you  see,  stands  for  the  cushion. 
Here  are  the  tassels  at  each  corner  of  the  setting. 
It  is  a  reliquary,  too,"  and  he  turned  it  over. 
"  You  see  how  it  opens  at  the  back  .  ,  .  But 
here  is  something  to  delight  madame.  Look, 
isn't  it  human,  the  eternal  feminine — doesn't 
it  touch  your  heart?" 

He  had  opened  a  little  door  at  the  back  of  the 
cross,  and  there,  inside,  instead  of  the  expected 
piece  of  blessed  bone,  or  fragment  of  the  true 
Cross,  what  do  you  think  was  there?  A  tiny 
powder-puff! 

O  woman  !  woman  ! 

"  How  Catholic  !  "  I  exclaimed ;  "  and  I  '11  wager 
she  was  a  good  little  devout  Catholic  for  all  that !  " 

"She  is  that  —  poor  little  woman,  if  ever  there 
was  one,"  said  my  friend,  with  more  than  usual 
sympathy  in  his  voice. 

"You  know  her  then?  "  said  I. 

"Yes!  I  know  her,"  he  said.  Then  presently 
he  continued  :   "  You  will  notice  that  this  powder- 


Old  Silver  183 

puff  contrivance,  this  little  lid  here,  is  compara- 
tively new.  Ten  years  old,  maybe.  It  was  just  a 
freak  of  her  gay  little  head  —  in  the  days  when  it 
was  still  gay." 

My  eye  had  for  a  moment  wandered  away  and 
fallen  upon  a  picture  that  I  had  never  noticed  in 
the  shop  before. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  picture?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Stunning,  is  n't  it?  "  he  answered. 

It  was  a  modern  picture,  a  singularly  vivid  im- 
pression of  a  crowded  centre  of  New  York  at  twi- 
light —  Thirty-third  Street  and  Broadway  at  the 
rush  hour,  with  the  elevated  coming  up  against 
a  smoky  sunset ;  a  picture  filled  with  the  poetry  of 
modern  cities. 

"Though  you  would  n't  think  it,"  said  my  friend, 
as  I  turned  once  more  to  the  bishop's  cross,  "  the 
cross  and  the  picture  belong  to  each  other." 

And  then  he  told  me  a  story. 

Some  eight  or  ten  years  before  the  bishop's 
cross  came  into  the  possession  of  Well-Beloved 
there  was  a  certain  young  man,  in  an  exceedingly 
wild  and  woolly  Western  town,  who  had  been  incon- 
veniently gifted  by  nature  with  the  unreasonable 
desire  to  paint  beautiful  things.  Yes !  it  became 
more  and  more  evident  to  his  perplexed  and  dis- 
appointed   connections  that    Paul    Channing   was 


184  Painted  Shadows 

born,  or  rather  doomed,  to  be  an  artist.  But  for 
this  disconcerting  tendency,  he  might  have  taken 
advantage  of  the  reversion  of  a  prosperous  dry- 
goods  store  belonging  to  his  father,  and  thus  re- 
,  posed  upon  a  prosaic  "  certainty,"  instead  of 
whimsically  choosing  the  very  precarious  uncer- 
tainty of  the  life  of  art.  His  case,  too,  presented 
an  additional  peculiarity  and  difficulty  which  de- 
serve mentioning.  His  choice  of  subjects  was  so 
bewildering. 

The  town  of  Busiris  was  by  no  means  without  a 
certain  appreciation  of  art  —  that  is,  art  of  a  cer- 
tain kind,  a  very  fixed  and  certain  kind.  It  allowed 
a  certain  mysterious  importance  to  the  artist  who 
painted  subjects  from  "  the  Greek,"  Italian  land- 
scapes, sacred  pieces,  or,  in  short,  anything  that 
had  been  painted  so  often  before  that  it  had  be- 
come quite  natural  and  recognized  to  paint  it  — 
waterfalls,  say,  or  mountain  scenery,  or  sensational 
shipwrecks.  Animals,  or  "  still  life,"  reproduced 
with  recognizable  fidelity,  the  town  of  Busiris  was 
prepared  to  accept.  But,  alas !  Paul  Channing 
cared  to  paint  none  of  these  things  —  and  he 
defended  his  disinclination  with  extraordinary 
heresies.  The  mere  fact  of  these  subjects  having 
been  painted  so  much,  he  said,  was  reason  enough 
for  his  painting  something  else.  The  business  of 
the  painter  was  to  paint  new  beauty,  and  thus  re- 


Old  Silver  185 

veal  it  to  eyes  that  had  yet  to  find  it  out.  There 
was  no  need  to  go  so  far  afield  for  beauty.  It  was 
at  our  very  doors.  It  was  everywhere  about  us, 
rainbowing  our  common  lot  and  commonplace  sur- 
roundings. Our  very  offices  and  factories  were 
beautiful,  seen  in  the  proper  light  and  with  the 
right  eyes.  There  were  moments  when  Busiris 
was  as  beautiful  as  the  Parthenon  —  though,  of 
course,  in  a  different  way.  Italy !  Greece !  No, 
America  was  beautiful  enough  for  Paul  Channing. 
He  would  be  the  painter  of  America.  One 
would  rather  have  expected  Busiris  to  welcome 
this  patriotic  leaning  in  its  young  artist.  But,  cu- 
riously enough,  this  choice  of  subject  seemed  to 
be  the  most  incomprehensible  of  all  his  vagaries. 
America  was  useful,  indeed  —  but  beautiful !  No, 
that  was  no  part  of  its  business  —  and  it  was  all  in 
vain  that  Paul  painted  the  Joplin  Soap  Works  zt 
sunset,  or  caught  the  romantic  expression  of  the 
shoe  factory  by  moonlight.  Nor  were  his  impres- 
sions of  the  "limited  "  coming  in  from  Chicago,  or 
of  a  crowded  trolley-car  at  the  rush  hour,  more 
convincing  to  his  fellow-citizens. 

So  it  was  that,  partly  in  disgust  and  partly  in 
search  of  new  subject-matter,  he  decided  to  go 
East.  He  had  once  been  to  Chicago,  and  loved  a 
sky-scraper  in  course  of  erection ;  and  for  a  long 
while  he  had  dreamed  of  painting  New  York,  with 


1 86  Painted  Shadows 

its  turreted  peninsula,  singing  like  a  forest  of  stone 
in  the  breath  of  the  Atlantic. 

Paul,  with  the  fierce  independence  of  the  artistic 
young,  refused  to  accept  anything  of  the  proffered 
aid  of  a  father,  perplexed  but  kindly,  beyond  his 
fare  and  a  hundred  dollars,  which  he  was  confident 
of  repaying  a  week  or  two  after  his  arrival  in  New 
York  out  of  the  appreciation  of  a  more  sympathetic 
public. 

So  it  was  that  Paul  Channing  came  to  New 
York,  and  found  cheap  yet  pleasant  rooms  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Washington  Square.  He  was  not 
entirely  friendless  in  his  new  home,  for,  as  it  always 
providentially  happens  with  artists,  though  so  far 
away  from  New  York,  he  had  already  been  found 
out  by  two  or  three  experimental  young  painters 
whose  studios  were  round  the  corner  from  his 
lodging,  and  letters  from  whom  had  done  no  little 
toward  keeping  him  alive  out  there  in  Busiris, 
But  he  did  not  immediately  advise  them  of  his 
presence  in  New  York,  for  the  reason  that  he 
wanted  to  have  the  city  all  to  himself  for  a  little 
while — a  sort  of  artistic  honeymoon.  He  shrank 
from  the  risk  of  anyone  else  displaying  it  to  him. 
He  knew  how  he  was  going  to  love  it,  and  he 
knew — so  he  thought,  in  that  sublime  self-confi- 
dence of  youth  which  wins  most  of  the  battles  of 
life — that  he  needed  no   one's  assistance  to  see 


Old  Silver  187 

whatever  beauty  belonged  to  it.  It  was  going  to 
be  his  city.  He  had  dreamed  of  it  for  months, 
even  years,  and  now  at  last  he  was  come  to  paint 
it.  So  days,  even  weeks,  went  by,  without  his  even 
thinking  of  being  lonely;  for  the  beautiful  city  was 
more  beautiful  than  he  had  dared  to  dream  it,  and 
the  days  were  too  short  for  him,  as  he  sat  with  his 
sketch-book  and  strove  to  fix  his  rapt  impressions 
of  its  adventurous,  even  foolhardy,  charm.  He 
would  spend  whole  days  on  ferryboats  just  to  look 
at  that  wonderful  sky-line  of  office-buildings  reso- 
lutely, even  sternly,  insisting,  without  a  thought  of 
beauty  —  and  yet  so  terribly  beautiful,  with  the 
terrible  beauty  of  power.  So  the  beauty  of  cities 
had  always  come  about,  he  said  to  himself  Strong 
men  had  needed  strong  buildings  for  their  mer- 
chandise, their  cannon,  or  their  prayers,  and  from 
the  sincerity  of  their  strength  the  stone  had  soared 
and  massed  itself  together,  and,  because  it  was  real, 
had  unconsciously  become  beautiful. 

After  a  while  he  had  made  so  many  sketches 
that  he  felt  the  need  of  showing  them  to  some  one, 
and  so  called  on  his  fellow-artists — thereon  to 
become  quite  a  small  lion  among  them.  Here 
was  the  man  they  had  all  been  looking  for !  And 
soon  the  name  of  Channing  was  being  mysteriously 
passed  on  from  studio  to  studio,  as  the  latest 
esoteric    man  of  the   future.     This   was   naturally 


1 88  Painted  Shadows 

gratifying  to  the  young  painter,  but,  as  it  did  no 
more  than  confirm  his  own  quiet  idea  of  himself,  it 
in  no  way  turned  his  head.  On  the  contrary,  it 
had  the  uncommon  effect  of  concentrating  him  upon 
his  artistic  purpose,  and  of  once  more  secluding 
him  from  the  generously  eager  society  that  now 
began  to  seek  him.  Paul  was  so  far,  at  all  events, 
a  true  artist  that  the  praise  he  received  did  not 
paralyse  him  with  self-satisfaction ;  it  simply  cer- 
tificated a  dream  and  a  hope.  As  a  rule,  the 
young  artist  is  so  intoxicated  with  the  first  fra- 
grance of  his  first  laurels  that  they  send  him  to 
sleep  upon  them,  never  to  wake  again.  But  Paul 
was  different.  He  realised  that  the  budding  laurel 
is  very  liable  to  bhght,  and  that  from  no  cause  is 
it  so  liable  to  languish  as  the  laureate's  own 
neglect.  Therefore  he  absented  himself  from 
facile  adulation,  and  shut  his  door  and  lived  with 
his  sketch-book  and  his  canvases. 

But,  being  a  painter,  his  room  necessarily  had 
windows,  and  looking  through  them  one  day,  he 
saw  a  beautiful  face.  A  beautiful  face  was  some- 
what irrelevant  to  Paul  —  for  his  dreams  had  been 
all  of  beautiful  buildings.  However,  the  face  was 
so  beautiful  that  he  was  compelled  to  look  at  it 
again,  and  again  and  again.  The  face  was  bent 
over  a  strip  of  embroidery,  the  beautiful  face  that 
was  evidently  striving  to  catch  all  the   light  of  a 


Old  Silver  189 

cloudy  day.  There  was  a  sad  little  garden  to  the 
house  where  Paul  lodged,  and  it  was  by  so  much 
as  its  few  yards  of  dank  and  disappointed  greenery 
that  the  industrious  little  seamstress  and  Paul  were 
divided  from  each  other.  But  Paul  was  some 
seven  stories  high,  and  the  unknown  beautiful  face 
sewed  for  ten  hours  of  the  day  on  a  level  with  the 
garden.  Paul  saw  her  smitten  by  a  strong  top- 
light,  which  irradiated  her  head  with  glory.  She 
gave  no  evidence  of  ever  catching  sight  of  him,  and 
indeed  may  have  been  entirely  unconscious  that 
his  eyes  were  on  her  so  often  and  so  long  each 
day.  Dimly  seen,  seated  a  little  way  from  the 
window,  was  an  old  lady  who  worked  in  company 
with  her,  on  similar  lengths  of  needlework,  and, 
the  month  being  June,  the  two  sat  with  the  window 
open,  and  sometimes  waifs  of  their  talk  —  happy, 
laughing  talk  —  and  little  songs,  frailly  sweet,  would 
float  up  into  Paul's  open  windows.  But  the 
laughter  was  all  he  could  understand,  for  the  words 
belonged  to  a  language  foreign  to  him.  French, 
he  said  to  himself,  though  he  neither  spoke  nor 
read  that  beautiful  tongue,  and  French  surely  was 
that  dark  beauty  so  vivid,  so  distinguished,  so 
brilliantly  brunette.  As  he  looked  on  it,  Paul  re- 
called the  lines  of  an  Eastern  poet : 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  woman 
Quite  so  black,  yet  quite  so  fair  ! " 


190  Painted  Shadows 

And,  day  by  day,  the  face  at  the  window,  up  and 
bright  and  industrious  often  in  the  very  dew  of 
dawn,  came  to  mean  more  to  him,  more  and  more 
to  pique  his  curiosity  and  stir  his  sense  of  wonder. 
It  was  so  exquisite  a  face,  and  the  hfe  of  this  un- 
known mother  and  daughter  —  though  they  were 
evidently  poor  and  hard  working  —  suggested  a 
certain  sad  distinction  ;  was,  so  to  say,  so  "  aristo- 
cratic "  in  its  refinement.  So  a  dowager  and  a 
young  queen  in  exile  might  ply  their  needles  for 
a  livelihood  with  haughty  industry. 

If  Paul's  studio  had  had  many  visitors,  it  could 
hardly  have  escaped  notice  that  his  sky-scrapers 
were  for  the  moment  in  eclipse,  and  that  studies 
of  a  certain  beautiful  head  occupied  all  the  avail- 
able spaces  of  easel  and  wall,  chair  and  even  bed- 
stead. Temporarily  the  river-front  had  lost  its 
fascination,  and  the  sketches  and  canvases  littered 
about  that  were  not  occupied  with  the  beautiful 
face  were,  mysteriously  enough,  given  up  to 
sketches  of  a  not  particularly  beautiful  cat.  It  was 
not  Paul's  own  cat.  No  cat  shared  his  studio  with 
him,  and  up  till  now  cats  had  never  attracted  him. 
I  suppose  it  is  not  hard  to  guess  that  it  was  a  cat 
that  drowsed  on  the  window-ledge  of  the  unknown, 
as  she  sat  at  her  work  —  the  third  member  of  the 
family. 

One  evening  when  Paul  returned  from  a  walk  he 


Old  Silver  191 

was  somewhat  startled  to  find  this  httle  friend  of 
hers  curled  up  on  his  divan,  in  the  deep,  pathetic 
sleep  of  petted,  trustful  animals.  Pussy  opened 
her  eyes  sleepily,  but  did  not  stir,  and  suffered 
him  to  stroke  her  without  protest,  presently  pur- 
ring by  way  of  friendship.  As  Paul  stroked  her, 
he  said  to  himself  over  and  over,  "  Her  little 
cat ! "  and  then  he  looked  out  to  see  if  there  were 
any  signs  of  agitation  in  the  window  below.  The 
blind  was  undrawn,  and  a  lamp  burned  on  a  little 
table,  but  the  chair  was  empty.  Perhaps  Black- 
as-Night  —  as  in  his  thoughts  he  had  long  since 
called  the  stranger  —  was  out  looking  for  her  pet. 
It  was  natural  to  suppose  that  she  was  very  un- 
happy at  its  loss,  and  very  unlikely  that  she 
should  guess  the  best  place  to  look.  Obviously  it 
was  Paul's  privilege  to  do  Mademoiselle  Gabrielle 
Chartier  a  real  service  —  for  he  had  made  it  his 
business  to  learn  her  name  —  and  possibly  .  .  . 
Well,  at  all  events,  it  was  wonderfully  in  his  power 
to  send  her  to  bed  easier  in  her  mind  than  she 
could  otherwise  have  gone  with  "  her  little  cat " 
wandering  out  of  doors  —  heaven  knows  where. 
There  was  a  broad  blue  ribbon  round  pussy's 
neck,  and  Paul  bethought  him  that  he  might  allow 
himself  so  much  reward  as  to  attach  to  it  one  of 
those  portraits  of"  her  little  cat,"  with  the  compli- 
ments of  the  artist.     This  he  thereupon  did,  and 


192  Painted  Shadows 

having  made  Pussy  happy  with  a  long  drink  of 
milk,  they  set  out  together.  Arrived  at  Mademoi- 
selle Chartier's  door,  his  knock  was  answered  by  a 
maid-servant,  who,  acknowledging  the  receipt  of 
pussy,  volunteered  the  information  that  mademoi- 
selle was  out,  looking  for  her,  and  would,  she  was 
sure,  be  proportionately  grateful. 

Returning  to  his  studio,  Paul  watched  the  lonely 
lamp  for  a  full  hour,  but  nothing  happened.  Then, 
deciding  to  smoke  his  bedtime  pipe  and  drink  his 
usual  nightcap,  he  left  his  window  a  moment  or 
two.  When  he  returned,  the  lamp  down  there  was 
no  longer  burning. 

Black-as-Night  had  evidently  come  home  and 
found  her  little  pussy-cat  all  safe.  Before  she  put 
out  the  lamp  — had  she  looked  up  at  his  window 
with  a  momentary  gratitude?  He  felt  that  she 
must  have  done  that  anyhow  —  and  what  did  she 
think  of  the  picture  of"  her  little  cat"? 

These  questions  were,  in  some  degree,  answered 
by  a  dainty  note  that  came  to  him  next  evening, 
in  which  Mademoiselle  Gabrielle  Chartier  acknowl- 
edged Mr.  Channing's  great  kindness  in  restoring 
her  precious  pet,  and  wished  to  thank  him,  too,  for 
the  pretty  sketch.  Only,  she  could  not  help  adding 
that  Mr.  Channing  had  failed  to  note  a  very  un- 
common characteristic  of  "  her  little  cat " :  the 
white  ring  around  her  tail  —  the  Ring-o'-Roses,  as 


Old  Silver  193 

she  called  it.  Otherwise  the  portrait  was  perfect, 
and  Mademoiselle  Chartier  begged  once  more  to 
express  her  gratitude  to  the  artist. 

Paul  naturally  looked  out  of  his  window  for  the 
next  day  or  two  with  unusual  interest,  though  it 
was  hard  on  him  that  he  had  to  take  more  care 
now  than  before,  lest  he  should  attract  attention, 
and  thus  seem  to  be  claiming  the  acquaintance  of 
a  smile.  Black-as-Night  was  there,  punctual  and 
industrious  as  before,  but,  so  far  as  he  could  ob- 
serve, she  seemed  no  more  conscious  of  the  studio 
on  the  seventh  floor  than  formerly.  Her  beautiful 
head  was  bent  over  her  stitchery  with  the  same 
day-by-day  absorption,  and  her  beautiful  hands 
sped  the  needle  and  the  coloured  silks  as  industri- 
ously as  before.  And  in  the  shadow,  a  little  away 
from  the  window,  an  old  lady  plied  a  needle  and 
thread  on  the  glowing  tapestry — and  on  the  win- 
dow-sill "  her  little  cat "  blinked  lazily  in  the  sun 
—  with  unmistakably  that  ring  of  white  roses 
around  her  tail. 

Several  days  passed,  and  Black-as-Night  worked 
at  her  window,  and  Ring-o'-Roses  sunned  herself 
on  the  window-sill,  and  the  summer  days  went  by. 
But  Paul  had  fallen  unaccountably  idle,  and  the 
incident  of  "  her  little  cat "  seemed  as  closed  as  a 
marble  tomb.  Paul  left  his  door  open  several 
evenings,  in  the  hope  that  Ring-o'-Roses  might  be 

13 


194  Painted  Shadows 

tempted  once  more  to  go  in  search  of  adventures ; 
but  —  no!  "her  little  cat"  stayed  at  home.  Then 
it  occurred  to  Paul  that  possibly  it  might  not  be 
taking  undue  advantage  of  an  opportunity  to  make 
a  more  careful  study  of  Ring-o'-Roses,  with  special 
regard  to  the  unique  decoration  of  her  tail.  To 
this  end  he  bought  a  powerful  opera-glass,  so  that 
he  might  make  no  mistakes  this  time  —  and  he 
made  it  a  point  of  honour  with  himself  that  he 
would  look  only  at  Ring-o'-Roses,  and  not,  in  the 
weakest  moment,  take  advantage  of  her  beautiful 
little  mistress.  Indeed,  he  was  not  hypocritical  in 
this,  and  I  trust  the  reader  will  not  blame  him  if 
one  day  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of 
looking  at  the  pattern  she  was  working  upon,  and 
if,  following  the  pattern,  his  eyes,  so  to  say,  eaves- 
dropped upon  her  beautiful  hands  —  and  then 
made  a  sudden  theft  of  her  face.  But  for  this 
Paul  was  so  remorseful  that  he  shut  up  his  glasses 
and  used  them  no  more.  He  would  not  look  in 
those  beautiful  eyes  by  stealth,  would  not  be  a 
thief  of  their  privacy.  If  some  day  —  yes,  if  some 
day  they  cared  to  give  up  their  pure  depths  to  his 
gaze  —  well,  ah,  how  well  it  would  be !  But  to 
filch  their  solemn  quietude,  to  come  secretly  upon 
their  silence  —  no,  Paul  already  loved  Black-as- 
Night  too  much  for  that. 

But   she  could   hardly  resent   his  sending   her 


Old  Silver  195 

what  he  called  "  Ring-o'-Roses  —  Corrected  Por- 
trait." The  sketch  could  not  fail  to  give  her  pleas- 
ure, and  somehow  he  felt  that  she  would  divine 
that,  supposing  her  interest  in  the  sketch  did  not 
extend  to  the  artist,  he  was  not  the  man  to  trouble 
her  with  further  reminders  of  his  existence. 

So  the  new  portrait  of  Ring-o'-Roses  was  duly- 
finished  with  great  care,  and  directed  to  Mademoi- 
selle Chartier,  and  —  was  it  wrong  of  her  ?  —  Black- 
as-Night  looked  up  at  the  studio  next  morning 
and  —  smiled. 

Black-as-Night  presently  followed  up  her  smile 
with  a  note  in  which  Mademoiselle  Chartier  thanked 
Mr.  Channing  for  the  sketch,  and  added  that  she 
and  her  mother  would  be  glad  if  he  could  take 
tea  with  them  on  the  following  Thursday  after- 
noon. Perhaps  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  that 
Mr.  Channing  was  proud  to  accept  the  invitation. 
So  Thursday  afternoon  found  him  seated  inside 
the  very  room,  and  in  the  very  chair  by  the  win- 
dow, which  had  so  long  been  mysterious  and 
dreamlike  for  him. 

Mademoiselle  talked  English  exceptionally  well 
for  a  Frenchwoman,  talked  it  better,  indeed,  to  Paul's 
way  of  thinking,  than  most  American  girls,  because 
she  added  to  it  the  daintiest  suggestion  of  a  French 
accent.  Her  mother,  a  frail  little  old  lady,  talked 
English  hardly  at  all,  but  there  was  no  need  for  her 


196  Painted  Shadows 

to  talk.  She  was  as  silently  expressive  of  the  distin- 
guished charm  of  the  old  French  world  as  a  piece  of 
old  lace  —  or  those  sacred  embroideries  which  she 
and  her  daughter  worked  on,  in  the  spirit  of  lay- 
sisters,  for  the  holy,  beauty-loving  church  to  which 
they  belonged.  In  a  modest  way  they  had  quite 
a  reputation  for  their  skill  with  their  needles,  and 
Madame  Chartier  would  tell  with  pride  of  her  little 
daughter,  during  her  education  at  the  Convent  of 
the  Sacred  Heart,  before  the  disastrous  days  when 
M.  Chartier,  having  lost  all  his  money  through  the 
war,  had  died  and  left  them  penniless  —  how  the 
good  sisters  had  named  her  Doigts  d'Or,  because 
of  her  skill  even  as  a  child.  Whenever  there  was 
some  particularly  difficult  piece  of  needlework  to 
be  done  it  was  always  brought  to  little  Doigts 
d'Or. 

Presently  Doigts  d'Or  poured  out  tea  with  the 
golden  fingers,  and  Ring-o'-Roses  came  in  from 
the  window-sill,  with  a  curious  little  interrogative 
purr,  which  was  plainly  a  request  for  milk.  Doigts 
d'Or  poured  out  a  saucerful  for  her,  stroking  her 
affectionately  as  she  did  so. 

"  I  suppose  she  is  not  really  beautiful,"  she 
said ;  "  but  then,  you  sec,  we  love  her,  and  love 
makes  anything  seem  beautiful  —  don't  you  think  ?  " 
turning  her  rich  brown  eyes  full  on  his  face.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  thus  looked  into  them. 


Old  Silver  197 

How  deep  they  were,  cloudless  as  a  southern  sky, 
and  pure  as  a  child's ! 

Yes ;  such  a  child  she  was,  yet  so  profoundly, 
so  exquisitely,  so  benignantly,  so  tragically,  a 
woman.  Eyes  more  acquainted  with  the  external 
characteristics  of  woman  than  Paul's  —  which,  as 
we  have  seen,  had,  up  till  now,  mainly  occupied 
themselves  with  public  buildings  —  in  addition  to 
applauding  her  beauty,  would  have  been  able, 
scientifically,  so  to  say,  to  divine  in  Gabrielle,  in 
uncommon  possession,  those  even  rarer  and  more 
precious  qualities  of  womanhood  which  have  made 
the  Madonna  the  supreme  type  of  human  worship. 
Perhaps  older  and  sadder  eyes  than  Paul's  are 
needed  to  see  and  appreciate  these  qualities  im- 
mediately and  at  their  work;  that  infinite  fidelity 
which  no  wrong-doing  can  estrange,  which  with- 
stands all  the  shocks  of  fate  and  time,  and  that 
divine  tenderness  which  keeps  open  for  us,  when 
all  other  havens  are  closed,  the  arms  of  its  im- 
measurable consolation. 

Ah,  yes !  Gabrielle  was  indeed  beautiful,  but 
she  was  more.  All  over  her  sacred  womanhood 
it  was  written  that  she  was,  too,  the  perfect  mate, 
the  woman  men  have  died  to  —  lose ;  all  that  is 
concentrated  in  the  word  of  all  words  which  en- 
shrines the  indestructible  loyalty  of  human  feeling, 
that  word  so  sweet  to  be  so  strong,  the  word  —  wife. 


198  Painted  Shadows 

Paul  was  too  inexperienced  to  know  how  much 
more  the  word  wife  means  than  the  beautiful  girl 
we  marry ;  but  he  was  already  deeply  in  love  with 
the  beautiful  girl,  and  she  —  well,  when  a  woman 
like  Gabrielle  is  going  to  love  a  man  she  is  not 
long  in  making  up  her  mind.  But  she  takes  some 
time  to  call  it  "  love  "  even  to  herself  She  knew 
she  liked  Paul's  blond  curling  hair,  and  his  brave 
gray  eyes,  and  she  liked  the  way  he  shook  hands. 
They  were  strong,  clean  hands,  she  said  to  herself, 
and  she  looked  forward  to  his  holding  her  little 
bird  of  a  hand  in  his  again.  And,  these  important 
matters  being  silently  understood,  Paul  took  leave, 
going  away  enriched  with  Madame  Chartier's 
promise  for  herself  and  daughter  to  pay  a  return 
visit  to  his  studio  on  an  early  day. 

The  day  was  naturally  a  long  time  coming, 
but  it  came,  and,  for  the  first  time,  women's 
skirts  —  angelic  sound  !  —  rustled  into  Paul's  bache- 
lor soHtude.  How  wonderful  it  was  to  have  such 
wonderful  visitors !  Paul  could  not  only  have 
kissed  the  hem  of  Gabrielle's  pretty  black-silk 
skirt,  but  the  hem  of  her  old  mother's  also.  He 
took  them  to  the  window,  and  together  they 
looked  down  at  Ring-o'-Roses  sitting  in-  the  sun 
on  the  window-ledge.  To  think  that  they  were 
actually  up  here  with  him  to-day,  and  looking 
down,  as  he  had  so  often  looked,  without  a  thought 


Old  Silver  199 

that  that  beautiful  Doigts  d'Or  would  some  day 
bend  her  face  out  of  his  window  so  thrillingly 
near  his ! 

Of  course,  there  were  many  sketches  to  be 
examined,  and  Paul  grew  happier  still  as  he  saw, 
with  that  instinct  of  the  artist  that  cannot  be 
deceived,  that  Doigts  d'Or  knew.  It  was  clear 
that  she  saw  his  artistic  dream,  and  was  able  to 
appreciate  his  success.  His  heart  gave  a  great 
sigh  of  gladness  at  realising  this.  Presently 
Doigts  d'Or  mentioned  the  work  of  a  certain 
young  French  painter  who  also  was  given  up  to 
the  beauty  of  cities,  and  Paul's  confession  that  he 
knew  nothing  of  French  painting,  not  even  of 
anything  French  —  beyond  his  visitors  !  —  led  to 
Doigts  d'Or  talking  of  her  beautiful  French 
poets  .  .  . 

Were  they  French  songs  that  sometimes  floated 
like  silver  butterflies  up  into  his  window?  he 
asked.  There  was  one  he  loved  so  .  .  .  but,  of 
course,  he  could  n't  remember  the  words  —  not  even 
hum  the  tune. 

"  Could  it  be  '  Laiibe  nait  et  ta  porte  est  close '  f  " 
Gabrielle  asked,  "  or  perhaps  '  Le  Roi  d'  Yvetot '  f  " 

But  Paul  did  not  know,  adding  that  he  might 
dare  to  ask  her  to  teach  him  some  of  the  songs, 
if  it  were  not  like  asking  a  bird  to  teach  one  how 
to  sing. 


200  Painted  Shadows 

Doigts  d'Or  laughed,  and,  having  translated  to 
her  mother,  Madame  Chartier  shook  her  head 
playfully  at  him,  and  said  that  "  Messieurs  les 
artistes  "  were  dangerous  flatterers. 

Before  they  left,  Paul  summoned  up  courage 
to  bring  out  from  a  hiding-place,  where  it  had 
been  hurried  away  with  others,  what  he  considered 
his  best  sketch  of  Black-as-Night.  She  blushed 
deeply,  but  her  eyes  glowed  with  pleasure,  as  she 
recognised  herself,  and  her  old  mother  was  evi- 
dently won  from  that  moment.  Paul  explained 
that  he  would  beg  Madame  Chartier's  acceptance 
of  the  sketch,  but  it  was  so  imperfect,  etc,  —  yet 
if  only  she  would  allow  her  daughter  to  sit  for 
him,  he  might  hope  to  do  something  more  worthy. 
His  visitors  protested  against  his  wasting  his  time 
in  such  a  fashion,  but  Paul  retorted  by  a  business- 
like proposition.  He  should  paint  mademoiselle's 
portrait,  and  she  should  teach  him  some  of  those 
little  French  songs.  She  need  not  waste  her  much 
more  precious  time  either,  but  could  go  on  with 
her  needlework  while  he  painted.  So  it  was  a 
bargain,  and  Doigts  d'Or  agreed  to  fix  an  early 
day  —  to  sit  for  the  picture,  to  teach  monsieur 
French,  and  to  work  hard  at  her  embroidery,  all 
at  once.  Clearly,  there  would  be  little  margin 
left  for  such  industrious  young  people  to  get  into 
mischief. 


Old  Silver  201 

Quite  two  sittings,  if  not  three,  came  and  went 
with  exemplary  industry.  Doigts  d'Or's  face  grew 
on  the  canvas,  the  length  of  stitchery  grew  on  her 
lap,  and  Paul's  knowledge  of  French  had  pro- 
gressed as  far  as  a  respectable  mastery  of  the 
auxiliary  verbs;  for  it  had  seemed  best  to  begin 
his  studies  in  this  humble  way  rather  than  with 
those  airy,  delicate  lyrics  from  old  France  or 
modern  Provence,  which,  though  so  simple  and 
bird-like  on  Doigts  d'Or's  lips,  were  found,  after 
all,  to  exist  by  a  complicated  linguistic  organism 
which,  it  was  to  be  feared,  it  would  take  her  pupil 
some  time  to  master.  They  seemed  so  easy  to 
have  made,  so  divinely  natural  to  sing,  but  O 
how  grim  with  grammar  and  stiff  with  learning 
they  became  the  moment  one  tried  to  learn  them 
for  one's  self!  It  was  as  though  one  should 
study  the  anatomy  of  a  nightingale. 

It  was,  I  think,  on  the  occasion  of  the  fourth 
sitting  that  suddenly  Paul  lost  all  patience  with 
the  conditional  imperfect  tense  of  "  avoir y  and  at 
the  same  time,  throwing  down  his  brushes,  likewise 
brought  to  a  standstill  the  golden  fingers,  and 
holding  them  still  on  Gabrielle's  lap,  as  he  kneeled 
in  front  of  her,  looked  a  long  look  into  her  face, 
and  told  her  what  they  had  both  known  in  their 
hearts  —  with  that  mysterious  intuition  of  love  — 
the  moment  they   had  first   spoken   together.     O 


202  Painted  Shadows 

the  dear  words  —  how  often  they  have  been 
spoken,  how  often  written,  how  often  printed ;  but 
let  us  print  them  once  more.  Even  in  print  how 
they  breathe  incense  and  thrill  with  wonder ! 

"  I  love  you,"  said  Paul. 

"  I  love  you,"  answered  Gabrielle,  taking  his 
brows  in  the  golden  fingers,  O  so  tenderly,  so 
tenderly — and  as  she  looked  at  him  her  brown 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Is  there  anything  so  infinitely  sad  as  complete 
happiness?  And  for  these  two  life's  one  completely 
happy  moment  had  come.  O  golden  moment, 
stay  for  ever !  Let  love  remain  just  as  it  is  in  this 
first  moment  of  its  transfiguring  avowal,  an  altar- 
flame  of  perfect  fire,  a  newly  open  flower  divinely 
drunk  with  all  the  dews  of  heaven. 

Hardly  less  happy  was  Madame  Chartier  herself 
when  the  young  people  went  that  very  afternoon, 
and  told  her  their  love  and  asked  for  her  blessing, 
and,  when  the  day  approached  which  there  was  no 
necessity  long  to  defer,  she  brought  from  unsus- 
pected hiding-places  a  dowry  of  lace  and  fine  linen 
and  old  silver  which  made  Gabrielle  clap  her 
hands  for  joy  and  pride.  How  clever  our  quiet 
old  mothers  can  be  when  they  have  a  mind  to ! 

So  it  came  about  that  Paul  and  Gabrielle  were 
married — the    difficulty   of    Paul's    Protestantism 


Old  Silver  203 

having  been  smoothed  over  by  a  kindly  dispensa- 
tion —  and  the  manufacture  of  sacred  embroidery 
and  the  immortahsation  of  sky-scrapers  went  on 
under  the  same  happy  roof. 

To  have  won  Gabrielle  had  seemed  marvellous, 
wonderful,  but  that  moment  of  winning  her,  raptur- 
ous as  it  had  been,  what  was  it  compared  with  this 
daily  living  by  her  side ;  to  be  allowed  to  spend 
one's  days  in  the  close  neighbourhood  of  such  fra- 
grant goodness  as  Gabrielle's?  For,  as  time  went 
on,  her  goodness  of  nature  grew  to  seem  more 
wonderful  to  Paul  even  than  her  beauty.  It 
seemed,  indeed,  that  her  beauty  grew  out  of  her 
goodness  —  was  her  goodness.  Her  goodness  had 
the  charm  of  a  natural  gift,  and  her  religion,  as 
Paul  soon  learned,  as  he  studied  her  day  by  day  — 
happy  student! — was  no  less  an  unconscious 
fruition  of  her  whole  spontaneous  being.  She 
prayed  —  as  she  sang. 

It  often  amazed  him,  as  he  watched  her,  to  see 
how  real  certain  beliefs  and  attitudes  so  figmentary 
for  himself  were  to  her  instinctive,  childlike  nature, 
and  how  little  ways  of  thought  which  in  others 
he  would  have  called  either  superstitious  or  in- 
sincere, were  the  true  religion  of  a  little,  trusting 
child. 

By  a  hundred  engaging  ways  Gabrielle  led  Paul 
even  to  respect  "  superstitious  practices  "  which  in 


204  Painted  Shadows 

others  he  would  have  described  as  pertaining  to  a 
Polynesian  savage. 

For  example,  little  Gabrielle  never  took  medicine 
without  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  several  times 
and  saying  one  or  two  Ave  Marias,  and  Paul  had  to 
hold  her  in  his  arms,  too,  and  reassure  her  before 
she  would  set  her  lips  to  the  bitter  stuff. 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  she  would  say. 

"  I  know,  Httle  girl,  it 's  terrible.  Only  remember 
how  much  good  it  is  going  to  do  you." 

"  I'm  a  brave  girl,  am  I  not,  Paul?" 

"Indeed,  you  are,  Gabrielle.  But,  see  now  — 
see,  it  will  soon  be  down,  and  then  —  " 

"What  will  you  give  me  then,  Paul?  " 

"  You  shall  have  a  pound  of  your  favourite 
chocolate." 

"Truly,  Paul?" 

"  Truly." 

"  Wait  a  minute,  then  !  " 

Gabrielle  would  thereupon  mystically  tattoo  her- 
self with  prayers,  and  presently,  "  Now  ! "  she  would 
say,  and  the  bitter  stuff  was  swallowed  at  last. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  this  sounds  silly  to  read. 
Had  it  been  anyone  else  but  Gabrielle,  Paul  would 
have  called  it  idiotic,  but  it  was  so  plainly  real  to 
Gabrielle  that  he  could  not  help  respecting  it,  and 
wondering  if  that  was  not  the  only  efficacious  way 
of  taking  medicine. 


:'  Old  Silver  205 

Gabrielle,  I  said,  but  Paul's  name  for  her  was 
more  and  more  Dogits  d'Or — for  what  a  task,  O 
Golden-Fingers,  is  this  over  which  you  bend  with 
so  soft  a  hght  upon  your  face ! 

Doigts  d'Or ! 

But,  alas  !  For  so  short  a  time  shall  little  Denis 
wear  these  fairy  garments  upon  his  frail  limbs. 
Ah !  little  Denis,  if  only  you  had  stayed  a  year  or 
two  longer,  worn  out  your  baby  clothes,  and  set 
Doigts  d'Or  at  work  upon  some  larger  sizes.  If 
only  you  had  stayed !  But,  alas !  the  days  of 
Denis  were  hardly  more  than  the  days  of  a  snow- 
drop, nay,  hardly  longer  than  a  snovvflake's  was  the 
life  of  little  Denis.  If  only  you  had  stayed  longer, 
Denis  —  who  knows  ! 

We  have  been  so  occupied  with  Paul  Channing's 
domestic  affairs  that  we  have  almost  forgotten  that 
he  was  all  the  time  an  artist.  He  himself  may 
well  have  seemed  to  forget  that  all-important 
fact  —  in  the  lives  of  artists,  and,  alas!  in  the 
lives  of  those  who  love  them.  How  many  women 
have  forgotten,  or  failed  to  realise  it,  to  their  own 
sorrow !  No  artist  is  really  at  heart  a  human  being 
—  he  belongs  to  the  Undines,  to  those  fairy  tribes 
of  the  air  and  the  water  that  mean  no  harm  with 
their  appealing  simulation  of  humanity,  but  do 
so    much.       They    literally    "  enter    in "    to    the 


2o6  Painted  Shadows 

human  passions  of  their  fellows  —  even  undertake 
the  human  responsibilities! — with  such  a  reality 
of  interest  —  become,  for  instance,  husbands  and 
fathers  with  such  picturesque  sincerity.  It  is  they 
who  make  the  cradle-songs  that  break  the  heart, 
and  the  love-songs  that  make  the  cradles.  To 
declare  that  they  are  without  soul  or  heart  seems 
preposterous  when  all  the  litanies  and  lyrics  of 
life  are  plainly  of  their  making.  And  yet  — 
Well,  let  us  return  to  Paul  Channing,  merely  re- 
calling once  more  that,  though  he  was  by  this  the 
happiest  of  husbands,  he  still  remained  the  most 
dedicated  of  artists. 

Without,  of  course,  forgetting  Gabrielle's  beautiful 
face,  his  eyes  had  once  more  remembered  his 
beautiful  buildings,  and,  stimulated  by  that  fire 
which  love  mysteriously  brings  to  all  the  affairs  of 
hfe,  he  made  pictures  of  New  York  so  amazingly 
beautiful  that  even  New  York  itself  at  last  became 
aware  of  them.  People  known  as  "  magnates " 
began  to  buy  his  work,  and  great  ladies  swept  in 
and  out  of  his  studio.  In  short,  Paul  Channing  "  ar- 
rived," became  a  vogue,  and  found  himself  caught 
up  into  the  social  life  of  the  great  capital.  His 
worldly  affairs  prospered,  but  having  none  of  that 
worldly  ambition  which  is  too  often  a  humiliating 
weakness  of  the  provincial  artist,  he  never  forgot 
the  simplicity  which  had  made  him  strong.     For  a 


Old  Silver  207 

nature  such  as  his  the  common  temptations  of  hfe 
flaunt  themselves  in  vain. 

Properly  speaking,  Hfe  has  only  one  danger  for 
the  true  artist  —  the  danger  of  beauty. 

Paul  Channing  had  loved  and  married  the  good 
beauty.     He  was  now  to  meet  the  evil  beauty. 

Beauty  breeds  its  monsters,  its  coloured  poisons, 
its  terrible  flowers.  Just  as  there  are  strangely 
spotted  shapes  of  flower  and  fruit,  subtly  coloured, 
fantastically  formed  creatures  of  earth  and  air  and 
water,  wicked  fancies  of  nature,  whose  fairness 
seems  somehow  sin,  all  evil  enchantment  and  deadly 
sweetness,  beauty  that  is  all  lure  and  snare,  and  the 
heart  whereof  is  foulness  and  dust  —  so  there  are 
women  Hke  Dehlah  Marsh.  "Del"  Marsh  was 
the  name  by  which  she  was  usually  spoken  of  in 
the  over-cultivated  society  of  which  she  was,  per- 
haps, the  most  poisonous  flower.  To  her  intimates 
she  was  Lamia,  the  snake-woman,  with  the  strange 
red  hair  and  the  violet  eyes  and  the  skin  white 
as  a  shroud.  She  was  beautiful  as  some  exquisite 
fungus  in  the  decaying  woods,  and  indeed  she  was 
the  child  of  luxury  and  degenerate  idleness.  She 
was  very  rich,  and  learned  in  all  the  potent  essences 
and  distillations  of  art — in  literature,  in  music,  in 
painting.  Her  library  was  like  a  garden  heavy  with 
evil  scent,  and  everywhere  on  her  walls  the  soul  was 
seen  as  the  beautiful  bond-slave  of  the  senses. 


2o8  Painted  Shadows 

Her  life  was  a  continuous  quest  of  new  emotions, 
or  rather  sensations.  Her  pampered  nerves  cried 
out  for  the  new  thrih,  and  Paul  Channing's  art 
gave  her  for  a  moment  that  priceless  shock  of 
novelty.  She  bought  many  of  his  pictures,  and 
his  goodness,  his  simple  boyhood,  fascinated  her. 
His  freshness  came  upon  her  like  dew,  and  his 
virgin  spirit  stirred  all  her  impulses  of  seduction. 
And,  alas !  for  him,  he  fell  before  her  as  one 
stricken  by  some  sweet-smelling  narcotic.  She 
drew  him  to  her  as  a  snake  draws  a  bird. 

O  Gabrielle,  with  your  beauty,  white  as  the 
northern  star,  wholesome  as  a  meadow  of  daisies  ! 
where  are  your  songs,  Gabrielle  — those  pure  little 
songs  that  used  to  float  up  into  the  window?  Have 
you  forgotten  your  songs,  Gabrielle,  or  have  they 
lost  their  power?  Alas!  Gabrielle  sings  no  more. 
She  only  pines  and  prays,  and  watches  Paul's 
haunted  face  with  a  dying  heart. 

Alas  !  little  Gabrielle,  must  you  come  like  this 
to  understand  that  you  love  one  of  those  terrible 
lovers  of  beauty  —  an  artist?  He  loves  all  beauty  — 
your  good  beauty,  Gabrielle  —  yes,  he  loves  it 
still ;  but  the  evil  beauty  has  now  laid  its  spell 
upon  him.  God  made  him  so.  God  help  you 
and  him,  little  Gabrielle !  You  cannot  help  him, 
Gabrielle.  The  poison  must  have  its  way  with 
him,    spread    its    devil's    fire   through     his     veins. 


Old  Silver  209 

But  who  knows?  —  he  may  not  die.  Love  him 
and  love  him,  Gabrielle,  and  watch  and  pray,  and 
maybe  he  will  grow  whole  again,  and  come  back 
to  God  and  to  you,  and  the  old,  clean  dreams,  with 
purged  eyes  and  a  heart  made  new.  Watch  and 
pray,  Gabrielle.  There  are  saints  to  help  all  us 
poor  sinners,  and  there  is  the  compassionate  Mother 
of  us  all. 

All  true  religion  is  instinctive  —  yes,  super- 
stitious, if  you  will.  It  is  the  profound  organic 
recognition  by  one's  whole  multiplex  nature  of 
invisible  standards  for  our  visible  lives,  obedience 
to  laws  of  right  and  wrong  essentially  as  "  unrea- 
sonable" as  the  unseen  commands  of  gravitation. 
It  is  dumbly  unargumentative,  and  relies  in  silence 
on  the  aid  of  those  invisible  powers,  which  it  obeys 
without  a  question,  as  simply  as  it  draws  its  breath. 
Those  who  follow  the  invisible  law  naturally  rely 
upon  the  invisible  guidance  and  protection. 
Gabrielle's  goodness  obeyed  the  laws  of  God  as 
simply  as  her  beauty  obeyed  the  laws  of  nature. 
As  she  strove  to  live  according  to  the  will  and  the 
example  of  the  Blessed  Saints,  you  can  hardly 
blame  her  if  she  relied,  in  times  of  difficulty,  on 
their  assistance.  Her  own  particular  saint  was  St. 
Anthony  —  of  Padua :  he  who  finds  for  us  what  we 
have  lost  Little  Gabrielle  knew,  I  imagine,  little 
of  St.  Anthony's  personal,  Paduan   history.     She 

14 


2IO  Painted  Shadows 

would,  very  likely,  have  been  surprised  to  hear  that 
he  was  so  recent  a  saint,  and  have  wondered  what 
the  poor  people  did  who  had  lost  things  before 
he  was  born. 

Gabrielle  had  lost — a  heart;  not  quite  lost  it, 
perhaps,  but  was  in  danger  of  losing  it.  To  whom 
should  she  go  if  not  to  St.  Anthony?  The  Holy 
Mother  was  ready  with  illimitable  pity  when  hope 
was  quite  gone  by,  and  loss  was  an  irretrievable 
fact.  She  alone  could  dry  our  tears  and  bind  up 
our  wounds,  but  St.  Anthony —  ah  !  he  could  bring 
us  back  what  we  had  lost,  all  the  more  precious 
by  its  seeming  theft. 

There  was  a  little  New  York  church  where  St. 
Anthony  stood  day  and  night  —  far  away,  indeed, 
from  Padua — stood  ready  to  help  any  sad  soul 
that  cared  to  light  up  his  kind  face  with  the  flame 
of  a  votive  candle.  Near  by  his  shrine  was  a  box 
divided  into  two  parts.  Both  parts  contained 
candles,  and  one  part,  being  labelled  "  ten  cents," 
contained  longer  candles  than  the  other  part,  which 
was  labelled  "  five  cents."  Candles  are  earthly 
offerings  to  heavenly  beings,  and,  if  they  were  to 
cost  nothing,  what  would  be  the  point  of  offering 
them?  Surely  the  intercession  of  an  invisible 
power  is  bought  cheaply,  even  nominally,  at  such 
prices. 

Gabrielle   always   bought    five-cent  candles,  for 


Old  Silver  2 1 1 

she  was  a  good  housewife,  and  knew  that  God 
does  not  wish  us  to  spend  more  on  prayers  than 
we  can  afiford.  Her  idea  was  that,  had  she  given 
a  million  dollars  for  a  candle,  her  prayer  would 
have  stood  no  better  chance  of  being  heard. 
Indeed,  she  would  probably  have  maintained  that 
—  the  poor  candles  come  first.  Such  was  her 
faith  in  God. 

So,  day  by  day  she  would  go  and  tell  St. 
Anthony  of  her  sorrow,  and  beg  him  to  give  back 
to  her  the  heart  of  the  man  she  loved. 

At  first,  when  Paul  had  fallen  under  the  spell, 
she  had  been  just  humanly  jealous,  as  any  other 
woman  might  have  been,  angry  and  vindictive; 
but  the  more  she  watched  the  face  of  Paul,  and 
marked  how  kind,  though  haunted  and  withdrawn, 
his  ways,  the  more  she  came  to  regard  him  as 
smitten  with  a  sickness  of  the  soul,  literally  a  love- 
sickness.  He  was  sick  of  an  evil  dream.  She 
would  nurse  him — self- forgetful  as  any  nurse. 
This  fancy  of  his  meant  no  more  than  some  fever 
accidentally  caught.  Even  though  it  should  kill 
him,  it  would  not  mean  that  he  did  not  love  her, 
or  disprove  that  she,  of  all  women,  was  his  wife. 

For  the  time  Paul  had  not  only  forgotten  —  or 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  —  Gabrielle ;  his  art 
languished,  too.  Like  us  all,  he  had  but  so  much 
life  to  give  —  here  or  there.     His  pictures  needed 


212  Painted  Shadows 

his  breath  and  his  blood  no  less  than  he  needed 
his  breath  and  blood  for  himself.  So  when  it 
happened  that  Lamia  stole  from  him  all  the  life 
he  had,  his  pictures  also  began  to  die. 

Critics  began  to  ask  what  was  the  matter  with 
Paul  Channing's  work.  Its  virility  seemed  to  be 
fading  out  of  it.  It  was  growing  perfunctory  and 
phantom-like;  and,  indeed,  properly  speaking, 
Paul  worked  no  more.  He  was  incapable  any 
longer  of  that  tranced  absorption  of  all  his  faculties 
in  a  healthy  fury  of  work  which  had  possessed  him 
as  he  carried  his  sketch-book  close  to  his  heart  to 
and  fro  on  the  New  York  ferry-boats.  The  clear 
electrical  atmosphere  of  his  passionate  vision  of  a 
new  beauty  born  in  the  West,  a  stern  beauty  of 
strong  towers,  lit  by  the  rising  sun  of  a  mighty 
people,  had  been  invaded  by  a  perfumed  miasma, 
and  the  stealing  sweetness  softened  all  his  strength. 

"  I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors  —  deatli-pale  were  they  all ; 
Who  cried,  '  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall  —  '" 

How  often  he  said  that  over  to  himself,  with  a  hope- 
less smile  at  his  bondage  ! 

"  Yes,"  he  would  add,  "  and  to  this  day  they 
are  all  kings  and  princes  and  warriors  that  are 
her  victims,  the  strong  men  and  the  pure  and 
the  noble.     O    Lamia's   tastes  are  dehcate !     The 


Old  Silver  2 1  3 

honey  she  loves  to  steal  is  hived,  like  David's 
honey,  in  the  hearts  of  the  strong." 

But  though  he  might  fight  against  the  coils,  the 
beautiful  snake's  eyes  were  too  strong  for  him,  and 
more  and  more  they  drew  away  his  life. 

Yes,  his  life  —  for  suddenly,  one  day,  with  a 
white  shock  all  through  him,  he  realised  that,  liter- 
ally, Lamia  had  done  him  a  mortal  hurt.  As 
even  strong  men  may  die  of  heart-break,  he  felt 
that  he  too  was  dying  from  within,  dying  of  some 
broken  pride  of  his  spirit,  dying,  as  it  were,  of  very 
shame  for  the  violated  idealism  of  his  soul.  There 
are  fevers  of  the  soul  for  which  the  body  must 
die,  and,  by  some  mysterious  intuition,  it  was  sud- 
denly whispered  to  Paul  that  before  many  months 
were  past,  he  was  going  to  die. 

When  the  thought  first  came  to  him,  he  dis- 
missed it  as  foolish.  Fevered  men  have  these 
fancies.  But  it  recurred  again  and  again,  and, 
indeed,  before  long  he  became  conscious  of  a  cer- 
tain physical  failure  in  himself,  a  fading  impulse 
and  a  lack  of  endurance.  He  was  manifestly  thin- 
ner, too,  and  he  would  sometimes  quote  laughingly 
to  himself  the  lines  of  that  Eastern  poet  he  loved  : 

"  So  thin  grow  I  with  longing,  and  this  ache 
That  in  the  grave  will  now  be  ended  soon, 
The  folk  at  evening  my  pale  body  take 

For  the  new  moon, 
Being  like  a  thread  of  silver  for  your  sake." 


214  Painted  Shadows 

He  would  even  say  them  to  Lamia,  with  that 
sad  laugh  in  which  there  is  no  laughter,  the  sad 
laugh  of  the  passing  soul.  And  Lamia,  who  in  her 
way  loved  him,  would  feel  a  little  sorry  for  him, 
and  wonder  ,  .  . 

"  Paul,"  she  said,  one  evening,  as  they  sat  to- 
gether among  the  books  and  pictures  that  gave 
out  poison  like  night-blossoming  plants,  "  are  you 
sorry  that  you  have  loved  me?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Paul. 

"  Sorry!     Why?     Why  are  you  sorry?" 

"  Because,  Del —  I  have  never  really  loved  you." 

"  Never  loved  me  ! "  and  she  laughed  the  scorn- 
ful, fatuous  laugh  of  the  conceited  poison. 

"  No,  Del,  I  have  never  loved  you  for  one  second. 
I  have  been  your  poor  drugged  and  delirious  slave. 
I  have  pressed  your  lips  to  mine  as  an  opium 
smoker  presses  the  little  pipe  to  his  lips,  and 
dreams  he  is  king  of  all  the  gardens  of  the  sky. 
Have  I  loved  you,  Del?  Yes,  if  the  man  loves  the 
poison  that  steals  his  soul  and  saps  his  body,  and 
melts  his  manhood  like  wax,  all  in  exchange  for 
a  few  painted  wings  of  the  butterflies  of  dreams. 
Loved  you !  Yes.  I  have  loved  you  as  men  love 
poisoned  honey,  and  opiates  loaded  with  death, 
and  all  the  foul  sweetness  of  the  pit  of  hell  —  but, 
like  all  such  men,  how  gladly  would  I  give  back 
for  ever  all  your  spices  and  your  songs  for  one  drop 


Old  Silver  215 

of  dew  glittering  in  some  old,  pure  morning  of  my 
boyhood  ! " 

"  Dear  Paul,"  said  Lamia,  "  dear  Paul  —  your 
talk  grows  more  picturesque  than  ever.  How  full 
of  colour  it  is,  as  vivid  ..." 

"  As  the  flames  of  hell,"  Paul  interrupted  her, 
"  Don't  you  know  that  dying  men  are  the  best 
talkers  in  the  world?  No  dinner-table  can  match 
the  death-beds  of  some  men  for  brilliancy.  Del,  I 
am  dying  —  dying  of  the  poison  that  is  you  ..." 

"  You  are  not  very  polite,  Paul.  Death-bed  wit 
is  usually  more  polished  ..." 

"  You  wicked  thing !  "  cried  Paul,  growing  pale 
with  anger,  and  rising  to  go  on  shaking  limbs, 
"  How  wicked  you  are  !  You  see  me  dying  —  yet 
you  can  jest  like  that.     You  wicked  thing  !   ..." 

But  Lamia  stayed  his  going  with  a  caress,  and 
gave  him  a  long,  singing  drink  in  a  delicate 
Venetian  glass,  and  ran  her  white,  wicked  fingers 
through  his  curls,  a  little  damp  with  the  fever  that 
was  in  him,  and  soothed  him,  sang  to  him,  and 
told  him  that  it  was  he  who  was  cruel,  not  she ; 
that  indeed  she  loved  him ;  if  he  loved  her,  too, 
was  it  any  fault  of  hers?  —  and  if  it  really  hurt 
him  to  love  her,  he  should  go  away  —  yes,  go 
away  that  very  night,  and  see  her  no  more.  And, 
for  answer,  Paul,  lying  back  on  the  settee,  with 
eyes  like  grave-candles,   drew  her    close  to    him, 


2i6  Painted  Shadows 

and  looked  long  into  the  poison-flower  of  her 
face. 

"  Sing  to  me,  Del,"  he  said  presently.  "  Sing 
me  .  .  .  '  The  Woman  of  Dreams.'  " 

Going  to  the  piano,  Del  recited,  rather  than 
sang,  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  touched  note 
here  and  there  —  recited  well,  for  Lamia  loved 
poetry  and  all  beautiful  things  with  a  real  love, 
and  perhaps  was  no  more  intentionally  evil  than 
any  other  beautiful  evil  thing: 

"  I  am  she  who  comes  back  and  comes  back  with  the  sound 
of  the  rain, 
I  am  she  who  whispers  and  whispers  hidden  among  the 
leaves  ; 
I  am  the  sea  and  the  wind,  and  the  sigh  of  the  summer  grain. 
And  the  lonely  reed  am  I  that  rocks  and  whimpers  and 
grieves. 

"  I  am  the  woman  who  came  in  the  dawn  and  the  dew  of 
your  days, 
For  when  first  awakened  your  eyes  't  was  upon  my  face 
they  fell ; 
From  your  cradle  you  rose  and  walked  the  world  in  the 
hope  of  my  face. 
Seeking  the  woman  of  dreams,  in  heaven,  in  earth,  and 
in  hell. 

"  Yes  !  I  am  the  woman  of  dreams,  the  woman  no  man  shall 
wed  — 
Would  you  mate  with  the  rising  moon,  or  the  glimmer 
of  stars  upon  streams  ? 
Or  marry  the  mist  on  the  mere,  or  the  hopes  in  the  heart 
of  the  dead  ? 
Then  home  to  your  hearth  shall  you  bring  me  —  me,  the 
woman  of  dreams. 


Old  Silver  217 

"  Have  you  seen  a  light  on  the  hills  you  never  shall  touch 
with  your  hand? 
Have  you  heard  a  voice  in  your  sleep  you  never  again 
shall  hear  ? 
Have  you  dreamed  of  a  sea  so  blue,  and  O  of  so  green  a 
land, 
Believed  in  a  tale  more  true  than  the  stories  of  eye  and 
ear  ? 

"  Have  you  dreamed  of  a  gold  and  a  silver  more  silver  and 
more  gold 
Than  men  mine  in  the  mountains,  or  deep  dived  for  some 
dream 
Pearl  beyond  reach  of  diver,  at  the  spent  end  to  hold 
A  drowning  clutch  of  radiance,  a  sinking,  circling  gleam? 

(,"  I  was  the  gold,  I  the  silver,  the  light  on  the  hills,  the  pearl. 
The  sound  of  the  summer  leaves  was  I,  the  sound  was  I 
of  the  rain. 
The  hope  in  your  heart  was  I,  your  dream  boy's  dream  of 
a  girl. 
Yea,  the  woman  of  dreams  was  I  —  that  all  men  must 
love  in  vain. 

•'Ah !  never  shall  you  be  mine,  belov&d,  nor  ever  can  I  be 
yours  ! 
You  are  the  kiss  of  the  sun  on  the  sea,  I  am  the  flying 
foam. 
Ah  !  shall  we  live  in  a  rainbow,  love,  so  long  as  a  rainbow 
endures. 
For  I  am  the  woman  of  dreams,  and  the  rainbow  is  my 
home?  " 


When  she  had  finished,  Paul  was  silent  for  a  long 
time.     He  was  thinking  of  Gabrielle. 


21 8  Painted  Shadows 

"  Yes,"  he  said  presently,  "  it  is  time  I  went  back 
to  my  woman  of  dreams  ..." 

"  I  thought  I  was  your  woman  of  dreams,  Paul," 
said  Del,  coming  over  to  him  and  laying  her  hand 
on  his  hair. 

Paul  laughed  scornfully. 

"  You  !  .  .  .  You,  my  woman  of  dreams  !  No, 
Del,  men  don't  dream  of  women  like  you.  Men 
dream  of  good  women,  faithful  women,  of  noble 
comrades,  and  splendid  mothers  —  not  phantom 
women,  poison  women,  like  you  ..." 

"  Paul !  " 

"  Yes,  I  'm  rude,  I  know.  One  is  always  inclined 
to  be  rude  when  one  is  wretched,  and  to  reproach 
others  when  one  is  most  disgusted  with  one's  self. 
Forgive  me.  I  know  you  are  not  to  blame.  You, 
like  us  all,  are  only  fulfilling  the  law  of  your  nature. 
Poisons  cannot  help  being  poisons.  It  is  for  the 
sane  man  to  keep  away  from  them.  Good-bye, 
Del.  This  is  good-bye.  I  don't  think  we  shall 
meet  again." 

However,  Paul  and  Lamia  did  meet  again,  for  her 
snare  was  strong  even  when  clearly  seen  to  be  a 
snare ;  but  one  afternoon,  as  Paul  was  returning 
home  from  a  call  upon  his  cruel  enchantress,  he 
happened  to  pass  by  the  church  where  Gabrielle 
said  her  prayers,  and  there  indeed  she  was  mount- 
ing the  steps  just  as  he  was  passing.     She  had  not 


Old  Silver 


219 


seen  him.  There  was  a  look  of  intense  loneliness 
about  her  little  figure,  a  dwindled,  hopeless  look 
about  her  very  frock,  that  smote  his  heart;  and, 
unperceived  of  her,  he  followed  into  the  church. 
Except  for  half-a-dozen  shadows  kneeling  here  and 
there  in  the  dimness,  the  church  was  empty.  It 
was  very  dark,  and  indeed  was  only  illuminated 
by  the  light  from  two  shrines  at  its  far  end.  To 
one  of  these  Gabrielle  bent  her  steps,  and  having 
fixed  and  lit  a  candle  on  the  great  democratic 
candlestick,  she  knelt  down  near  by  and  prayed  .  .  . 

Paul  knew  for  whom  and  for  what  she  was  pray- 
ing, and,  as  he  watched  her  kneeling  there,  his  evil 
dream  fell  from  him.  Rising  from  her  knees, 
Gabrielle  met  his  eyes  and  saw  that  her  prayer  was 
answered. 

"  Gabrielle,  will  you  forgive  me?  "  he  said.  "  It 
was  all  a  foolish  lie,  a  wicked  dream.  I  have  never 
loved  anyone  but  you  in  all  my  life.  I  was  en- 
chanted, Gabrielle.     I  did  not  know." 

Gabrielle's  face  grew  transparent  with  a  look  of 
terrible  joy,  and  she  fell  almost  fainting  into  Paul's 
arms. 

"  O  but  is  it  true?     Paul,  is  it  true?  " 

"  It  has  been  true  all  the  time.  Nothing  else 
has  ever  been  true.  I  have  been  sick,  that  is  all. 
Now  I  am  well.  I  think  it  was  your  prayers, 
Gabrielle.     I  heard  them  all  the  time." 


2  20  Painted  Shadows 

Gabrielle  turned  involuntarily  toward  the  saint 
who  had  brought  her  back  the  heart  she  had 
seemed  to  lose. 

"  Thank  St.  Anthony  with  me,"  she  said,  "  for  it 
was  he  brought  you  back  to  me."  And  Paul  knelt 
by  her  side,  and  prayed  with  her ;  and  then  they 
went  out  into  the  street  together  with  shining  eyes. 

And,  indeed,  unless  certain  kind  heavenly  powers 
do  have  our  poor  mortal  hearts  in  their  keeping, 
how  shall  one  explain  the  complete  oblivion  of 
those  months  of  fever  that,  now  and  immediately 
and  for  ever,  blotted  out  for  Paul  the  name  of 
Delilah  Marsh?  The  ancient  king  who  bathed  in 
the  Eastern  river  did  not  rise  out  of  the  water  more 
cleansed  of  the  leprosy  of  his  body  than  Paul  rose 
from  his  knees  that  afternoon  cleansed  of  the 
leprosy  of  his  soul. 

"  And  the  cross?  "  said  I,  after  a  long  silence. 

"  It  was  an  heirloom,"  answered  my  friend  who 
bought  and  sold  the  dream-silver,  "  that  had  come 
down  to  Madame  Chartier  from  a  grandfather  who 
was  the  bishop  of  some  place  or  other  in  Northern 
France.  It  is  a  humble  thing  compared  with  a 
gold  cross  that  once  belonged  to  the  same  grand- 
father, which  poor  Gabrielle  brought  me  one  day, 
when  ..." 

"  When  ..."  said  I. 


Old  Silver  221 

"  When  Paul  Channing  was  very  ill." 

"  And  she  brought  this  ..." 

"  Some  weeks  after  he  was  dead,  and  she  and 
her  mother  were  going  back  home  to  Europe." 

"  She  has  gone,  then?"  said  I. 

"  Yes ;  and  I  bought  all  Channing's  pictures  she 
could  bear  to  part  with.  I  hope  some  day  to  be 
able  to  send  her  quite  a  little  surprise  packet  of 
money,  the  profit  on  all  I  could  afford  to  give  her 
at  the  moment." 

"  Channing  died,  then?  "  said  I. 

"Yes." 

"  But  he  never  went  back  to  Lamia?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  he  ever  thought  of  her  again," 
answered  my  friend.  "  I  became  rather  intimate 
with  them  all,  from  the  time  that  his  wife  first 
brought  in  to  me  one  of  his  pictures  to  sell.  It 
struck  me  so  much,  and  she  herself  so  interested 
and  charmed  me,  that  I  asked  to  call  and  see  some 
more  of  his  pictures  .  .  .  and  so  we  got  to  be 
friends. 

"  He  was  a  very  great  artist,  and,  as  he  lay  there 
wasting  away,  it  was  wonderful  to  watch  his  face 
light  up  as  he  talked  about  his  old  love  —  not 
Lamia  —  but  the  beauty  of  New  York ;  and  to  the 
last  there  was  always  a  charcoal  and  a  piece  of 
board  at  his  side,  with  which  in  a  few  firm  strokes 
he  could  do  more  than  most  men  with  a  month's 


222  Painted  Shadows 

hard  work.  And,  strange  as  it  may  sound,  though 
he  was  so  ill,  I  never  saw  so  much  happiness  as 
among  those  three  people.  Their  love  for  one 
another  was  the  most  beautiful,  most  truly  happy 
thing,  I  ever  saw.  The  shadow  of  death  seemed 
only  to  make  it  the  more  beautiful." 

"And  Gabrielle?"  said  I. 

"  It  was  strange  to  see  her.  It  was  as  though 
she  were  not  losing  him  at  all  —  only  parting  from 
him  for  a  little  time.  She  had  come  to  have  as 
sure  a  faith  in  his  love  as  in  God  Himself,  and  his 
death  was  to  her  literally  little  more  than  as  though 
he  were  to  be  divided  from  her  by  a  long  journey. 
But  that  they  should  meet  again  some  day  at  the 
end  of  the  journey,  and  be  each  other's  beyond  the 
power  of  parting,  she  evidently  no  more  doubted 
than  she  doubted  that  St.  Anthony  had  brought 
back  her  husband's  heart  to  her  that  afternoon  in 
the  little  church." 

"  Your  old  silver  is  very  sad,"  I  said  to  my 
friend  after  a  while. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  it  is  filled  with  sighs." 


FRAGOLETTA 


FRAGOLETTA 

WHEREVER  Septimus  Ledward  travelled 
—  and  he  travelled  much,  for  the  vicis- 
situdes of  life  had  filled  his  soul  with  an 
unrest  that  did  not  suffer  him  to  remain  very  long 
in  any  one  place  —  he  carried  with  him  a  strangely 
beautiful  little  box  of  beaten  copper,  evidently 
very  ancient,  and  secured  by  bands  and  locks 
almost  grotesquely  out  of  proportion  to  its  size. 
This  box  he  never  allowed  out  of  his  sight,  nor 
permitted  even  his  faithful  man-servant  to  touch 
it.  On  his  journeys  he  himself  carried  it  in  a 
strong  leather  case  made  specially  to  hold  it, 
which  never  left  his  side,  day  or  night.  Only  two 
people  in  the  world  besides  himself  knew  what  the 
box  contained.  One  was  the  highest  officer  in  the 
English  Customs,  and  the  other  was  of  no  special 
account.  One  would  be  right  in  surmising  that 
the  box  created  no  little  curiosity  in  the  customs 
houses  of  the  many  ports  of  entry  and  frontier 
stations,  through  which  in  his  wandering  life  he 
was  continually  passing.  But  he  had  only  to  draw 
from    his   pocket   a   paper   signed    by   that   high 

15 


226  Painted  Shadows 

official  aforesaid  to  cause  the  officer  in  charge  to 
salute  him  with  an  almost  religious  deference,  and 
to  signify  that  after  such  a  credential  no  examina- 
tion of  the  mysterious  box  was  necessary. 

His  friends,  of  whom  he  had  many  —  for  in  his 
strange  melancholy  way  he  was  busily  and  some- 
times vividly  social  —  were  hardly  less  curious 
than  the  customs,  and  would  often  late  at  night, 
when  the  wine  had  loosened  the  bonds  of  discre- 
tion, ask  him  to  reveal  the  secret  of  the  strangely 
beautiful  little  box,  that,  however  fleeting  his  visit 
to  any  particular  place,  had  always  some  distin- 
guished position  in  his  rooms  reserved  for  it. 

He  would  answer  them  according  to  his  mood. 
Sometimes  an  elfish  mockery  would  take  hold  of 
him,  and  he  would  excite  and  pique  their  curiosity 
with  mysterious  suggestions  and  half-promises  of 
confidence.  At  other  times  he  would  silence  them 
with  a  dark  fierce  look,  but  hardly  more  fierce 
than  sad,  which  set  them  to  knocking  out  their 
pipes,  drinking  off  what  remained  in  their  glasses, 
and  remarking  on  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  At 
other  times  he  would  indulge  a  certain  poetic  in- 
vention he  possessed,  and  tease  them  with  pictur- 
esque fancies  —  such  as  this,  for  example.  The 
box,  he  would  say,  was  filled  to  the  lid  with 
gold  pieces  .  .  .  Ah !  but  listen  .  .  .  gold  pieces 
stamped  with  the  face  of  a  wonderful  dead  woman. 


Fragoletta  227 

No !  she  was  not  some  ancient  queen  of  Babylon. 
She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  dead  but  a  few  years 
ago,  a  mysterious  princess  of  some  long-displaced 
dynasty,  whose  fancy  it  was  to  establish  her  own 
mintage.  She  was  very  rich,  and  was  able  to 
employ  the  greatest  artists  to  design  the  coins, 
some  of  which  were  light  as  snow-flakes  and  fine 
as  lace,  some  no  larger  than  a  pearl,  and  some 
mossy  and  embossed  like  antique  medallions,  all 
various  with  exuberant  fancies,  and  all  impressed 
with  her  beautiful  face.  The  coins  circulated  only 
among  her  courtiers,  and  the  great  number  of 
her  secret  subjects  scattered  in  all  parts  of  the 
world.  Amongst  them  their  value  was  greater 
than  the  value  of  any  other  general  currency. 
"When  she  died,"  ended  Ledward,  "I  obtained, 
at  an  enormous  cost,  from  the  master  of  the  mint, 
the  entire  residue  of  her  treasury — and,  great  as 
was  the  cost,  each  of  the  coins  in  that  little  box 
represents  a  power  to  purchase  devotion  and  ser- 
vice in  strange  places  such  as  any  other  coin  a 
hundred  times  its  value  would  fail  to  buy." 

There  was  among  Septimus  Ledwar's  friends, 
as  often  happens  among  one's  friends,  a  man  who 
was  really  his  enemy.  Yet  a  common  interest  in  a 
dead  woman  had  irresistibly  drawn  them  together. 
They  had   loved   the    same  woman,  and  she  was 


228  Painted  Shadows 

dead,  but  Septimus  had  won  her  love  in  return, 
and  his  friend  had  failed.  The  woman  had  been 
dead  now  many  years,  but  neither  of  the  men  had 
been  able  to  forget  her.  Neither  of  them  would 
ever  forget  her  till  they  died ;  and,  as  I  said,  out 
of  this  immortality  of  mutual  remembrance,  a 
curious  sinister  friendship  had  grown.  Each 
longed  to  speak  to  some  one  of  that  beauty  which 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  had  forgotten,  but  each 
had  no  one  to  speak  to  but  the  man  he  at  once 
hated  and  blessed  for  remembering  it.  Both  were 
lonely  men.  Both  had  been  born,  and  one  of 
them  still  spent  his  days,  in  the  same  old  country 
town.  Septimus,  as  I  have  said,  lived  but  a  short 
time  in  any  one  place,  but  none  the  less  the  old 
rambling  house  in  which  he  had  been  born  was 
always  in  readiness  for  him,  and  it  was  not  seldom 
that  his  wandering  orbit  brought  him  back  there. 
And  up  till  three  years  ago  he  had  always  had  for 
a  companion  a  beautiful  child.  But  now  the  child 
came  no  more,  for  she  was  dead,  —  dead,  though 
but  twelve  years  old,  —  and  her  little  starlit  face, 
that  had  so  strangely  incarnated  her  mother's 
beauty,  was  gone  like  the  wood-anemones  of  three 
years  ago. 

Septimus  had  loved  his  wife  with  one  of  those 
rare  passions  which  throw  a  glory  of  immortality 
across  the  face  of  life,  and  her  death  had  left  him 


Fragoletta  229 

stricken  with  that  dangerous  lonehness  in  which 
the  characters  even  of  the  strongest  men  are  apt 
to  become  the  prey  of  all  the  evil  spirits  of  despair. 
Nor  did  he  entirely  escape  their  influence,  but,  for 
the  first  four  years  after  his  wife's  death,  he  had, 
like  many  men  in  his  case,  numbed  the  noble  pain 
in  him  by  those  narcotising  dissipations  which 
may  possibly  belong  to  the  merciful  processes  of 
time,  but  which  in  retrospect  leave  the  soul  sick 
and  sorely  ashamed. 

From  one  poor  pleasure  to  another  he  passed, 
drugging  the  anguish  of  his  memory;  and  mean- 
while, in  the  pure  atmosphere  of  his  country  home, 
a  little  gold-headed  girl  had  been  growing  out  of 
babyhood,  and  her  big  violet  eyes  were  filling  her 
face  with  wonder,  blossoming  there  as  though  they 
were  flowers  growing  out  of  her  mother's  grave  — 
her  mother's  own  eyes  come  back  again  as  the  lost 
hyacinths  of  this  year  return  to  earth  with  the  next 
spring. 

Once  from  one  of  his  long  wanderings  he  returned 
to  find  the  baby  grown  into  quite  a  little  maiden, 
and  the  sight  of  her  smote  his  heart  with  a  pro- 
found remorse.  Suddenly  it  was  brought  home  to 
him  that  while  he  had  been  going  to  and  fro  upon 
the  wasting  errands  of  despair,  this  little  flower  had 
been  growing  up  here,  as  forgotten  by  him  as  a 
Hly  in  the  midst  of  a  wood.     He  had  come  upon 


230  Painted  Shadows 

her  as  she  was  playing  alone  in  the  old  garden, 
singing  gay  little  snatches  to  herself,  as  she  wove 
daisy-heads  into  a  chain  upon  her  tiny  lap.  There 
was  a  curious  pathetic  loneliness  about  her  gaiety, 
and  as  he  watched  her  there,  weaving  her  daisies 
and  singing  in  the  sun,  there  was  suddenly  flashed 
upon  him  a  vision  of  the  little  creature's  lonely 
days.  All  this  while  she  had  been  growing  "  mid 
sun  and  shower,"  growing  up  and  up  like  the  other 
flowers  in  that  neglected  garden,  going  from 
change  to  change  in  the  sweet  processes  of  her 
baby-hfe.  And  he  had  missed  it  all,  all  this  exqui- 
site growth  of  a  child,  a  girl-child  —  missed  it,  for 
what?  Suddenly  she  looked  up  and  saw  him,  and 
throwing  down  her  daisies  with  a  cry  of  delight, 
ran  to  him  with  heart-breaking  eagerness. 

"  Why,  Daddy,"  she  cried,  "  I  thought  you  were 
never  coming  home  !  " 

"  Fragoletta,"  he  said,  her  mother  looking  up  to 
him  out  of  her  eyes,  "  Fragoletta,  I  will  never  go 
away  any  more  —  "  and  he  pressed  the  little  figure 
to  his  heart. 

"  O  Daddy,"  she  said,  "  do  you  really  mean 
it?  Why,  that  is  news!  I  must  run  and  tell 
Nanny  ..."  and  she  half  started  off  to  tell  the 
great  news  to  her  nurse,  one  of  those  good  women 
who  are  mother  and  father  and  playmates  and  the 
whole  world  to  lonely  children. 


Fragoletta  231 

"  No,  stay  awhile,"  he  said,  gently  restraining 
her,  "  show  me  the  daisy  chain  you  were  making  "  ; 
and  they  went  and  sat  down  under  an  old  mulberry- 
tree  together,  and  Fragoletta  picked  up  her  daisies, 
and  began  humming  one  of  her  little  songs. 

"  Nurse  has  taught  me  so  many  new  songs 
while  you  were  away.  Daddy,"  she  said.  "  Shall  I 
sing  you  one?  " 

"  Do,  my  darling,"  he  said,  the  arrows  again  in 
his  heart,  to  think  how  good  all  this  time  a  kind 
servant  had  been  to  his  child.  As  she  sang  in  her 
little  bird-like  treble,  the  tears  filled  the  father's 
eyes.  With  the  quickness  of  childhood  she  noticed 
them :  "  Why,  Daddy,  you  are  crying  ..."  and 
then  a  storm  of  sorrow  swept  over  him  against 
which  he  was  powerless,  and,  burying  his  face  in 
the  baby  lap,  he  sobbed  as  though  his  heart  would 
break;  and  the  mother  that  lives  already  even  in 
httle  tiny  girls  stroked  his  hair,  as  if  she  knew  all 
the  sorrow  of  the  w^orld,  and  softly  said  over  and 
over,  "  Don't  cry.  Daddy  dear,  don't  cry." 

From  that  moment  Septimus  and  his  little  daugh- 
ter were  inseparable  companions.  He  still  re- 
mained a  wanderer,  but  henceforth  she  shared  his 
wanderings,  and  it  was  his  joy  to  take  her  with  him 
to  all  the  old  beautiful  places  of  the  earth,  the 
places  made  sacred  by  history  and  by  art,  and  to 
watch   the  wonder   of  the  world   reflected  in  her 


232  Painted  Shadows 

eager  young  eyes.  And  what  a  responsive,  grate- 
ful little  spirit  it  was !  How  she  drank  in  all  the 
beauty  and  the  wonder  with  those  big  eyes  —  eyes 
so  lit  up  from  within  that  many  who  looked  at  her 
shook  their  heads  !  It  was  too  much  the  face  of  a 
spirit  to  be  long  a  visitant  of  this  world  —  and  then 
her  mother  had  been  only  twenty-six  when  she 
died.  Fragoletta  !  Darling  little  Fragoletta  !  The 
very  name  seemed  ominous  —  and  as  she  grew 
more  and  more  into  maidenhood,  graceful  as  a 
wind-flower,  her  father  often  caught  himself  looking 
at  her  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart.  So  terribly  her 
mother  born  again  —  dare  one  think  she  would  es- 
cape her  mother's  fate?  She  had  come  to  seem 
less  like  his  daughter  than  her  mother's  childhood, 
her  mother  as  a  little  girl  —  like  those  pictures  of 
her  in  short  frocks  which,  like  most  lovers,  he 
cherished  perhaps  best  of  any:  for  there  is  some- 
thing strangely  touching  in  those  pictures  of  one's 
wife  taken  in  childhood,  with  the  funny  little  shoes 
and  stockings  and  the  nursery  coiffure  of  the  pe- 
riod. This  wife,  so  tall,  so  much  a  woman  at  your 
side  —  was  she  really  once  a  small  school-girl  like 
that?     How  strange ! 

So  the  days  went  by,  Fragoletta  growing  each 
day  in  beauty  and  grace,  and  in  his  love  for  her 
Septimus  found  a  consolation  in  which  there  was 
no  unfaithfulness ;   but  a  consolation  filled  with  the 


Fragoletta  233 

menace  of  a  new  bereavement  —  or  rather  the  old 
bereavement  suffered  twice ;  and  when  Fragoletta 
died  it  was  to  him  as  though  her  mother  had  died 
again.  But,  this  time,  he  sought  no  more  the  taw- 
dry alleviations  of  his  first  sorrow.  He  had  lived 
too  long  and  too  near  to  the  pure  heart  of  a  child ; 
and  it  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  heart  that  the 
memory  of  his  wife  was  now  merged  in  the  mem- 
ory of  his  child.  It  was  Fragoletta  he  found  him- 
self thinking  of,  and  of  her  mother  through  her. 
So  strange  is  the  human  heart ! 

And,  along  with  the  purification  which  little 
Fragoletta  had  wrought  in  him,  there  came  to  him, 
soon  after  she  had  died,  one  of  those  curious  in- 
tuitions which  one  would  disregard  as  fancies  did 
they  not  so  often  vindicate  themselves  as  facts  — 
the  intuition  that  before  very  long  he  too  would  fol- 
low whither  Fragoletta  and  her  mother  had  gone, 
and  in  some  meadow  of  Paradise  come  once  more 
upon  his  little  girl  making  daisy  chains  and  singing 
to  herself  in  the  sun.  There  was  no  reason  at  all 
for  this  feeling;  for,  in  spite  of  all  his  sorrows, 
Septimus,  as  we  have  said,  was  no  melancholy  mo- 
nomaniac, but  an  active  man  of  this  world.  Still 
anyone  versed  in  the  subtle  signs  of  approaching 
death  might  have  noted  a  strange  kindness  steal- 
ing over  him  soon  after  little  Fragoletta's  death,  a 
kindness  hardly  of  this  world,  an  aloof  gentleness  of 


2  34  Painted  Shadows    r 

manner,  as  of  one  ceasing  to  concern  himself  with 
the  sublunary  turmoil,  the  manner  of  one  who  is 
taking  farewell.  As  the  days  went  by,  his  face  grew 
gentler  and  gentler,  till,  though  he  was  still  quite  a 
young  man,  it  grew,  hke  Fragoletta's,  to  seem  made 
of  starlight.  And  all  the  time,  too,  he  continued 
wandering  from  place  to  place,  though  his  wander- 
ing was  no  longer  the  restless  fever  of  the  past. 
He  travelled  now  to  see  again  the  places  Fragoletta 
and  he  had  seen  together,  and  often  he  felt  certain 

within  himself  that  he  was  seeing  them  for  the  last 
time. 

And  this  kindness  that  was  coming  over  him 
extended  itself  to  all  by  whom  he  had  suffered 
wrong,  making  him  eager  even  to  take  the  wrong 
upon  himself,  to  put  to  sleep  old  enmities  — 
unconsciously,  was  it?  that  he  might  depart  in 
peace  with  all  men.  Above  all,  his  heart  went 
out  towards  the  friend  who  hated  him,  and  they 
would  often  sit  together  far  into  the  night  in  the 
lonely  old  house  talking  of  the  dead  woman  they 
both  loved.  But,  strange  as  it  may  sound,  neither 
ever  spoke  of  Fragoletta.  Sometimes  the  two 
men  would  visit  together  the  rooms  which  were 
still  kept  sacred  to  the  dead  woman  —  the  little 
boudoir,  with  her  work-basket,  its  reels  and  skeins 
just  as  she  had  left  it,  her  small  wainscoted  writ- 


Fragoletta  235 

ing-room  looking  into  the  old  garden,  with  her 
pen  as  she  last  laid  it  down,  and  the  book  she  had 
last  been  reading  with  its  face  turned  down  on  the 
divan.  All  was  just  as  she  had  left  it,  and  the  two 
men  walked  softly  about  the  still  rooms  and  said 
nothing  —  except  perhaps  sometimes,  "  She  is 
gone,  Septimus." 

"  Yes  !     Geoffrey,  she  is  gone." 

Now  it  must  be  told  that,  as  the  years  went  by. 
the  sorrow  in  the  heart  of  Geoffrey  Wake  —  for 
whom  there  had  been  no  Fragoletta  —  was  slowly 
turning  to  madness  in  his  lonely  brain;  and  there 
were  moments  in  those  midnight  watches  with 
Septimus  in  which,  though  he  appeared  to  be 
drowsily  smoking  his  pipe,  dark  impulses  rose  up 
in  his  soul  against  Septimus  seated  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hearth.  Often  he  felt  with  fierce  glee 
how  good  it  would  be  to  spring  across  and 
strangle  the  life  out  of  the  man  who  had  robbed 
him  of  the  woman  he  loved.  His  fingers  would 
indeed  move  nervously  at  such  times  with  the 
imagination  of  it.  Yes !  to  strangle  him,  to  watch 
him  awhile  in  the  stillness  of  his  death,  and  then 
himself  to  die,  and  so  end  the  ache  of  it  all  for 
ever.  These  dark  feelings  too  were  being  con- 
stantly fed  by  indulgence  in  wine,  which,  instead 
of  making  glad  his  heart,  filled  it  with  gloom  and 
desperate  fancies. 


236  Painted  Shadows 

Sometimes  Septimus  would  gently  stay  his  hand 
as  it  sought  once  more  the  midnight  decanter,  with 
a :  "  Don't,  Geoffrey.  I  have  tried  it.  It  is  no  use." 
And,  usually,  Geoffrey  would  take  the  admonition 
in  good  part.  But  it  chanced  one  night,  when  the 
wine  was  running  more  than  usually  wild  in  his  head, 
that  he  answered  Septimus  with  a  flash  of  anger. 

"  It  is  well  for  you  to  talk,"  he  cried,  rising 
threateningly  from  his  chair,  "  you  who  stole  her 
from  me  ..." 

"  Gently,  Geoffrey,  gently,"  said  Septimus,  striv- 
ing to  restrain  him. 

"Gently  be  d d,"  cried  the  other;   and,  his 

eye  suddenly  falling  on  that  little  ancient  box  of 
beaten  copper,  concerning  which  he  had  always 
cherished  jealous  fancies,  he  continued  :  "  Gently  be 

d d  ;   tell  me  what  you  hide  in  that  box  yonder  ! 

By  God,  you  shall,  for  I  know  well  what  it  is  ... " 

At  this  Septimus  grew  white  and  sprang  to  his 
feet 

"  If  you  lay  a  finger  on  that  box,  I  will  kill 
you,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Ah !  it  is  as  I  thought,"  said  the  other,  mock- 
ingly. "  It  is  her  hair,  her  thick  gold  hair  you 
keep  in  that  box.  You  have  stolen  that  from  me 
too.  You  thief — to  steal  a  woman's  hair  out  of 
her  coffin  .  .  .  open  that  box,  I  say,  or  by  the 
heaven  above  us,  I  will  break  it  open  ..." 


Fragoletta  237 

"You  are  drunk,  Geoffrey  —  and  you  are  wrong 
too,"  said  Septimus,  striving  to  keep  his  head. 
"Beatrice's  hair  has  long  since  turned  to  flowers. 
If  you  would  cut  a  lock  of  her  hair,  go  pluck  the 
violets  from  her  grave  ..." 

"You  lie  —  with  your  snivelling  poetry,"  cried 
Geoffrey;  and  he  added,  laughing  a  wild  laugh, 
"  you  shall  die  too  ..." 

Plucking  a  pistol  from  his  pocket,  he  instantly 
fired  it  into  Septimus'  breast.  Septimus  sank  back. 
For  a  second  his  friend  glared  over  him,  and  then 
the  madness  passed  in  sorrow,  and  Geoffrey  sup- 
ported him  in  his  arms,  laid  him  down  upon  the 
floor,  and  found  pillows  for  his  head. 

"  You  have  done  me  a  great  service,  Geoffrey," 
said  the  dying  man.  "  I  have  long  wanted  to 
go  ...  to  her." 

"  You  shall  not  go  alone,"  cried  Goeffrey,  his 
jealousy  returning  at  the  thought  that  the  dying 
man  was  indeed  so  soon  to  meet  the  woman 
he  loved.  "  See  !  we  go  together  "  —  and  next 
moment  a  bullet  tore  through  his  brain,  and  the 
two  men  lay  still  together,  and  the  secret  of  the 
little  box  was  still  kept. 

An  innocent  secret  it  proved,  indeed,  when  the 
day  came  for  the  mourners,  and  the  will  was  read, 
and    all   the    locked    places    of   the    life    of   Sep- 


238  Painted  Shadows 

timus  were  opened.  Septimus'  life  had  often  been 
in  danger  in  out-of-the-way  places,  on  account 
of  that  mysterious  little  box  of  beaten  copper. 
Expert  diamond  thieves  had  plotted  to  waylay 
him,  under  the  impression  that  it  was  filled  with 
precious  stones.  Once  in  Sicily,  brigands  had 
held  up  a  lumbering  diligence,  because  he  chanced 
to  be  travelling  by  it.  They  had  been  driven  off, 
but,  if  instead  they  had  murdered  Septimus  before 
his  time,  and  broken  open  that  little  box,  what 
would  they  have  found  ?  A  tiny  urn  of  alabaster, 
a  little  silken  frock,  a  pair  of  child's  shoes,  a 
bundle  of  old  letters,  and  this  word  engraved  in 
gold  upon  the  alabaster  —  Fragolctta! 


THE   WOMAN    IN    POSSESSION 


THE   WOMAN    IN    POSSESSION 

I  DON'T  know  how  you  put  up  with  it.  If  I 
were  you  I  should  tear  his  eyes  out,"  ex- 
claimed Ruth  Darley's  most  intimate  friend, 
as  she  entered  Mrs.  Darley's  boudoir  for  a  little 
visit  one  April  afternoon. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  dear?"  asked  Mrs^ 
Darley,  and  then  immediately  understanding:  "O 
you  mean  Francis  .   .  .  that 's  all  right." 

As  Mrs.  Martha  Stenning  had  rung  the  bell,  a 
smart  automobile  was  standing  at  the  door,  and  in 
the  hall  she  had  come  upon  Mr.  Darley  laughingly 
leaving  the  house  with  an  exceedingly  pretty  and 
smart  young  woman.  The  two  were  obviously 
very  much  occupied  with  each  other,  and  the  spin 
they  were  about  to  take  together  was  likely  to  be 
exceedingly  cosy. 

"Francis's  latest  inspiration  girl,  is  that  it?" 
said  Ruth,  her  beautiful  black  eyes  smiling  serenely 
from  a  face  that  radiated  a  happiness  secure  as  the 
fixed  stars.  "  Don't  upset  yourself  about  her, 
dear  Martha.  Francis  and  I  understand  each 
other  ..." 

i6 


242  Painted  Shadows 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Martha,  by  no  means 
placated. 

"  O  she  is  a  httle  actress  playing  at  the  Com- 
edy. Did  n't  you  think  her  charming?  I  'm  afraid 
she  is  not  much  of  an  actress.  She  is  one  of  those 
actresses,  you  know,  who  talk  Maeterlinck  and 
Pater — instead  of  acting;  and  poor  dear  Francis 
likes  that,  you  know.  A  girl  has  only  to  be  pretty 
and  talk  about  the  Mona  Lisa,  and  Francis  is 
lost  ..." 

"  The  Mona  Lisa  at  this  time  of  day !  I  sup- 
pose the  girl  comes  from  the  provinces.  Dear 
heaven,  how  sick  one  is  of  the  Mona  Lisa !  If  I 
were  a  man  I  should  prefer  a  woman  with  a  coura- 
geous taste  for  Marie  Corelli  ..." 

"  I  believe  that  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  Francis 
loves  me,"  laughed  Ruth,  who,  though  the  wife  of 
a  famous  poet  and  dramatist,  made  no  pretence 
of  being  "  literary  "  or  "  artistic,"  in  the  cant  sense 
of  those  much  abused  words.  She  was  enough  of 
a  reader  to  enjoy  Balzac  —  and  her  husband's  own 
writings,  of  which  he  truthfully  averred  she  was 
the  best  critic  —  and  that  is  quite  enough  "  litera- 
ture "  for  an  author's  wife.  To  Francis  Darley's 
great  comfort,  his  wife  did  not  possess  "  the  artistic 
temperament."  Two  artistic  temperaments  in  one 
house  would  be  a  menace  to  the  neighbours.  But 
Darley  knew  who  it  was  that  read  his  nature,  and 


The  Woman  in  Possession        243 

understood  every  little  law  of  his  being,  as  no 
one  else  in  the  world  knew  and  understood  them ; 
and,  however  his  fancy,  and  even  his  tongue,  might 
sometimes  be  carried  away,  his  heart  was  safe  in 
Ruth  Barley's  keeping,  as  Ruth  well  knew,  and 
smiled  accordingly. 

"  Yes  !  but  how  can  you  stand  it?  "  said  Martha, 
returning  to  the  main  theme.  "  Why !  if  Mark 
were  to  ...  " 

"  Mark  is  different." 

"  How  different?" 

"  Mark  is  not  a  poet." 

"  Thank  heaven,  no!  "  ejaculated  Martha. 

"  Francis,"  continued  Ruth,  smiling,  "  is  a  great 
poet.  Mark  is  —  a  great  husband  !  Now  Francis, 
whatever  you  may  think,  is  a  good  husband  —  but 
he  is  not  exactly  a  great  husband  —  not  a  born 
husband,  so  to  say,  as  he  is  a  born  poet." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  your  definition  of  a  good 
husband,"  rejoined  Martha.  "  It  must  be  rather 
original." 

"  A  good  husband  is  a  man  who  needs  you,  and 
knows  it  —  and  does  not  forget  it." 

"And  a  great  husband?  "  queried  Martha. 

"  Is  one  who  needs  no  one  else." 

"  You  are  easily  satisfied,  Ruth,"  commented  her 
friend,  "  and  your  definition  is  certainly  not  ro- 
mantic.    '  A  man  who  needs  you  ' !     How  prosaic 


244  Painted  Shadows 

living  with  a  poet  has  made  you !  I  want  to  be 
loved  —  not  to  be  needed." 

"  To  be  needed  is  to  be  loved,"  answered  Ruth, 
sententiously.  "  Need  is  the  only  love  that  lasts, 
and  the  deeper  the  need  the  deeper  the  love.  Men 
need  all  kind  of  things  in  woman.  They  need  our 
beauty,  and,  should  that  go,  and  we  possess  noth- 
ing else  they  need,  their  love  necessarily  goes  too. 
They  also  very  much  need  the  mother  and  nurse 
in  us,  and  the  wife  that  holds  a  man  is  hardly  less 
of  a  mother  to  her  husband  than  to  her  children. 
There  is  no  baby  to  compare  with  a  big,  grown-up 
husband." 

"  That  is  all  very  well,  so  long  as  he  only  needs 
tis.  It  is  his  needing  someone  else  as  well  that  I 
object  to  .  .  .  Why  should  Francis  need  to  be 
gadding  about  with  little  actresses  and  such  like, 
when  he  has  a  wife  as  young  and  pretty  as  you  at 
home?  " 

"  Because,  as  I  said  before,  Francis  is  a  poet." 

"  I  don't  see  what  difference  that  makes.  Why 
should  a  poet  be  more  polygamous  than  your 
average   man?" 

"  I  don't  believe  he  is,"  said  Ruth,  stoutly,  *'  but 
in  his  case  you  hear  about  it,  and  in  the  case  of 
the  average  man  you  don't.  Your  average  man, 
for  one  thing,  is  more  of  a  hypocrite,  and,  for 
another,  less  interesting  to  the  gossips.     Besides, 


The  Woman  in  Possession        245 

something  comes  of  a  poet's  love-affairs  —  Heine's 
love-songs,  for  instance  —  whereas  the  love-affairs  of 
your  average  man  are  mere  hoggish  self-indulgence." 
"  You  were  n't  always  so  philosophical,  Ruth." 
"  No,"  and  Ruth's  black    eyes  flashed  for  a  mo- 
ment with  a  certain   memory,  "  because   I  did  n't 
always  know  Francis  as  well  as  I  do  now.     I  admit 
that  once  it  would  have  broken  my  heart  to  see  him 
go  off  like  this.     I  should  have  thought  our  love 
was  at  an  end,  and    been   ready   for   all   kinds  of 
jealous   revenges.     I  nearly  left  him  once  on  ac- 
count of  an  affair  really  no  more  serious  than  this, 
and  it  was  seeing  how   suddenly  and  completely  it 
passed  away  that  taught  me  my  lesson.     Afterwards 
I  grew  to  feel    quite  sorry  for  the   girl,  as,  living 
with  him  day  by  day,  I    noticed  how  completely 
and  how  unconsciously  he  had  forgotten  her.     His 
power  of  forgetting,   or    rather  of  doing   without 
people,  sometimes  frightens  me.     It  is  so  quiet  and 
absolute,  so  silently  a  part  of  him.     He  seems  to 
care  for  people,  not  as  individuals,  but  as  sensa- 
tions—  for  the  effect  they  produce  in  him.     They 
exist  for  him   only  so   long  as   they  produce  the 
effect  he  desires.     I  don't  think  he  is  quite  con- 
scious   of  this,    and,   in    fact,  imagines    himself   a 
devoted  friend  to  any  number  of  people  —  but  I 
think  I  'm  right,  and  anyhow  I  know  it 's  Uke  that 
with  what  he  calls  his  inspiration  girls  ..." 


246  Painted  Shadows 

"  Inspiration  girls  indeed  !  "  fumed  Martha,  by 
no  means  convinced  by  Ruth's  long  speech  ;  "  why 
cannot  he  stay  at  home  and  get  his  inspiration 
from  his  wife?  " 

"  For  the  same  reason,  dear  Martha,  that  a 
painter  needs  a  change  of  models  occasionally  ..." 

"  Thank  heaven  I  am  not  a  painter's  wife,"  inter- 
jected Martha,  irrelevantly.  "  Think  what  the 
wives  of  those  painters  from  the  nude  must 
suffer  ..." 

"  Martha,  you  are  adorable,"  laughed  Ruth, 
kissing  her  friend,  "  but  I  'm  glad  you  said  that, 
because  it  helps  me  to  explain  poor  Francis  better. 
You  know  that  those  painters  you  speak  of  only 
look  upon  their  models  with  a  purely  professional 
eye  ..." 

"  They  say  so  —  but  does  any  one  believe  them  ?  " 

"  No  doubt  there  are  exceptions,"  said  Ruth, 
smiling,  "but  in  the  main  I  think  it's  true.  I 
understand  how  it  may  be,  through  Francis  —  for, 
however  much  he  may  call  himself  in  love  with 
this  or  that  inspiration  girl,  I  notice  that  he  is  even 
more  in  love  with  the  verses  she  inspires  ..." 

"  It  is  enough  to  make  one  give  up  reading 
poetry,  when  one  thinks  of  the  horrible  processes 
of  its  production,"  said  Martha,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Like  pat6  de  foie  gras,  or  osprey  plumes,  eh?" 
laughed  Ruth,  mischievously.     "  Well,  if  you  love 


The  Woman  in  Possession        247 

poetry,  and  particularly  If  you  love  a  poet,  you 
have  to  overlook  the  process." 

*'  I  could  never  do  it,"  said  Martha,  decisively. 

"  O  yes  !  you  could,"  said  Ruth.  "  It  is  a  part 
of  her  metier  de  femme  for  a  wife  to  adapt  herself 
to  her  husband's  profession,  whatever  it  may  be. 
Besides,  if  Francis  were  to  stop  falling  in  love,  we 
should  starve.  Without  the  stimulus  of  some  new 
face,  his  brain  would  stagnate  ;  for  it  is  the  novelty 
of  the  thing  —  not  the  thing  itself —  that  makes  the 
inspiration.  Why  now,  come,  Martha  !  in  a  lesser 
degree  we  all  experience  the  same  thing  when  we 
have  a  little  flirtation  with  a  new  man  at  dinner. 
How  bright  we  suddenly  become,  and  we  say  a 
hundred  clever  things  we  should  certainly  never 
say  at  home,  dumbly  dining  with  the  best  of  hus- 
bands. Daily  life  together  strengthens  the  roots 
of  love,  and  fills  the  branches  with  fruit,  but  it 
necessarily  shakes  down  the  blossom." 

"  Life  cannot  be  all  blossom,"  commented 
Martha,  with  solid  wisdom. 

"  True  enough,  dear  moralist,  but  you  must  have 
noticed  that  by  the  time  the  blossom  has  turned  to 
fruit,  the  birds  have  stopped  singing." 

"  You  are  incorrigible,  Ruth.  To  think  of  you 
standing  up  for  Francis  in  this  way,  and  to  think 
how  he  is  spending  his  time  this  very  minute  ..." 

"  Dear  Francis  !  "  said  Ruth,  half  to  herself,  her 


248  Painted  Shadows 

eyes  growing  soft  with  tenderness.  "  I  think  I 
know  pretty  well  what  he  is  doing,  and  could 
almost  tell  you  what  he  is  saying.  Let 's  see  — 
it's  just  half-past  four.  They've  been  gone  about 
an  hour.  Yes  !  they  '11  be  well  into  Surrey  by  this, 
and  have  probably  stopped  at  some  Httle  country 
inn  for  tea.  There  is  one  I  know  of  with  a  quaint 
old  garden,  winding  box-hedges,  and  summer- 
houses  in  quiet  corners.  They  will  probably  have 
tea  brought  out  into  one  of  these,  as  it  is  such  a 
sunny  afternoon.  On  the  way  along,  they  have 
almost  certainly  been  discussing  what  is  politely 
called  the  necessity  of  the  artist  to  live  his,  or  her, 
own  life  —  with  a  gentle  accent  on  the  her  (for  she, 
you  must  remember,  being  an  actress,  is  very 
much  of  an  'artist')  —  the  necessity  of  the  artist 
to  live  his  or  her  own  life  untrammelled  by  con- 
ventions ..." 

"  Without  regard  to  common  decency,"  amended 
Martha. 

"  Be  quiet,  Martha,  and  don't  interrupt  the  clair- 
voyant. He  has  also  been  telling  her,  so  as  to 
give  a  respectable  air  to  their  flirtation,  as  well  as 
to  set  her  at  her  ease,  what  an  angel  I  am,  and  how 
perfectly  I  understand  his  nature,  and  allow  him 
his  own  way.  She  has  said  how  exquisite  she 
thinks  me,  and  how  she  could  n't  bear  that  their  — 
their  —  friendship    should    cause    me  a   moment's 


The  Woman  in  Possession        249 

pain.  These  decent  preliminaries  agreed  upon, 
they  may  now  begin  to  play  the  game  with  a  clear 
conscience  ..." 

"  Ruth,  you  are  quite  horrible  ..." 
"  Hush !  they  are  sitting  in  one  of  the  little 
arbors  waiting  for  the  tea,  and  he  is  leaning  over 
the  table  looking  into  her  eyes.  They  are  both 
silent  a  long  while.  His  hand  rests  on  hers  upon 
the  table.  Now  he  is  speaking :  '  If  only  we  had 
met  earlier  ..."  he  has  said  —  without  a  quiver 
of  a  humorous  muscle,  perhaps  sincerely  forgetting 
that  he  has  said  exactly  the  same  thing  at  least  a 
thousand  times  before.  She  pats  his  hand  depre- 
catingly.  '  You  must  n't  say  that,'  she  says.  '  O 
it  is  no  disloyalty  to  Ruth,'  he  hastens  to  explain. 
'  I  love  her  very  truly.  But  I  love  her  differently. 
There  are  so  many  ways  of  loving.  We  love  one 
for  certain  qualities,  and  another  for  other  quali- 
ties. What  I  give  you  is  not  taken  away  from 
Ruth.  The  love  I  feel  for  you  is  something  differ- 
ent—  well,  because  it  is  for  you  .  .  .  '  Here  they 
suddenly  unlock  hands,  and  adopt  a  correct  atti- 
tude of  admiration  of  the  rural  prospect  —  for  the 
tea-tray  is  approaching  ..." 

"About     time,"    fairly    snorts     poor     Martha. 
"  Why,  Ruth,  how  can  you  !  " 

"  Don't  be  so  unsympathetic,  Martha.     See,  she 
is  pouring  out  the   tea   for   them.     '  How   many 


250  Painted  Shadows 

lumps?     Milk    or    cream?'     Her    expression    is 
almost  domestic.     It  is  so  dear  to  be  playing  at 
home  together  —  even  in  so  timid  a  way.     Neither 
speaks  of  this,  but  there  is  an  implication  of  it  in 
their  manner  toward  each  other.     '  Ah  !  well  .  .  .  ' 
sighs  Francis,  presently,  with  unutterable  meaning. 
'  We  must  be  brave,'  says  the  girl,  with  wifely  ten- 
derness.    '  Yes  !    yes  ! '    says   Francis,  *  but  O  the 
tragic    complexity    of    our    poor    human    lives! 
What  tangled  webs  they  are  !     How  we  miss  each 
each  other,  or  meet  too  late  1 '     '  Never  mind,'  says 
she,  bravely,  '  it  is  something  to  have  met  at  all  — 
even  like  this.'     '  Yes !  it  is  something  .  .  .'   and 
Francis    again    takes    refuge    in    the    unutterable. 
'  Who  gave  you  that  ring?  '  asks  the  girl,  presently. 
'  Ruth,'     says     Francis,     blushing     apologetically. 
Tears    suddenly    glitter   in   those  wonderful  eyes. 
Francis    presses    close    to    console    her,    his    face 
wearing  an   expression   of  the  tenderest  concern. 
It    is    terrible    to    see    her    suffer    so.       But   how 
brave  she  is  with  her  little  handkerchief!     'And 
now  suppose  we  go  for  a  walk.     There  are  some 
charming    woods    close    by  —  and    then   we    can 
have   dinner   at  the  inn,  and  so  back  to  town  in 
the  moonlight  .  .  .' " 

"  And  you  call  that  being  married !  "  cried 
Martha,  with  something  like  virtuous  indignation 
at  what  she  regarded  as  Ruth  Barley's  levity. 


The  Woman  in  Possession        251 

"No!  I  call  it  being  married  —  to  a  poet," 
laughed  Ruth. 

"  But  tell  me,"  said  Martha,  after  a  while,  "  about 
that  little  inspiration  girl  that  made  your  eyes 
flash  so,  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"  It  is  all  so  past  and  gone  —  it  is  silly  to  recall 
it,"  answered  Ruth. 

"  Never  mind.  I  want  to  hear.  Besides,  a 
woman's  past  is  always  so  much  more  interesting 
than  her  present." 

'•  O  all  right,  then,"  began  Ruth. 

"  She  was  a  dainty  little  thing,  and  had  what 
poor  Francis  calls  '  a  certain  strange  charm '  to 
which  he  is  susceptible  —  I  call  it  a  certain  clawish 
fascination,  a  kind  of  green-eyed,  moon-struck  pretti- 
ness,  which,  I  have  noticed,  repels  the  sane,  healthy 
man  no  less  than  it  attracts  those  abnormal,  half- 
diseased  creatures  we  call  '  artists.'  She  was  Hke 
some  nasty  sweet  flower  growing  out  of  a  grave.  I 
suppose  you  have  n't  noticed,  Martha,  but  artists 
have  a  curious  distaste  for  healthy  w'omen.  Not 
only  literary  men,  but  the  great  painters,  too,  seem 
to  have  an  objection  to  really  beautiful  women.  As  a 
rule,  the  greater  the  painter  the  homelier  his  women. 
It  is  very  seldom  you  find  a  great  painter  painting  a 
really  pretty  woman.  They  seem  to  resent  having 
to  allow  nature  any  share  in  the  beauty  of  their  art. 


252  Painted  Shadows 

"  Still,  I  don't  deny  that  in  her  way  this  Httle 
girl  was  pretty ;  and  she  was  very  clever  and  am- 
bitious, too,  and  could  talk  Francis's  artistic  jargon 
to  perfection,  picking  it  up  from  him  so  cleverly  as 
they  went  along,  that  poor  Francis  never  suspected 
that  she  was  little  more  than  a  skilful  feminine 
phonograph.  It  did  n't  take  long  to  persuade  him 
once  more  that  here  at  last  was  the  One  Woman 
he  had  been  waiting  for.  Francis  still  makes  peri- 
odical discoveries  of  that  One  Woman  —  but  I 
know  him  better  now,  and  pay  no  attention  to 
them.  I  understand,  as  you  would  say,  that  they 
are  a  part  of  the  horrible  processes  of  poetry.  But 
then  the  type  was  new  to  me.  Having  been 
brought  up  among  soldiers,  I  was  naturally  a  little 
out  of  it  with  poets.  Besides,  I  was  n't  married 
then  —  and  marriage  makes  a  great  difference, 
Martha;  for  marriage  is  one  of  those  actions  that 
speak  louder  than  words.  If  a  man  has  had  the 
courage  to  marry  us,  we  can  afford  to  reward  him 
with  a  little  of  his  own  way  afterwards.  Having 
paid  us  the  compliment  of  so  serious  a  fact,  surely 
we  may  be  a  little  lenient  to  his  fancies.  Francis, 
too,  I  am  bound  to  say,  was  quite  clever  for  once. 
As  a  rule,  he  is  a  miserable  liar  —  the.  feeblest  I 
know.  But  I  '11  confess  that  in  this  case,  for  a  long 
while,  he  took  me  in  completely. 

"  So  soon  as,  by  an  accident,  I  discovered  that  I 


The  Woman  in  Possession        253 

was  not  quite  the  only  woman  in  the  world,  he 
promptly  introduced  me  to  the  other,  explaining, 
with  the  most  convincing  innocence  of  expression, 
that  it  was  purely  an  artistic  affinity,  the  sympa- 
thetic relationship  of  two  fellow-craftsmen,  nothing 
more.  'Do  you  never  kiss  her?'  I  asked.  The 
very  thought  seemed  to  fill  him  with  horror, 
*  Never  ! '  he  exclaimed  ;  '  how  can  you  ask  me  such 
a  question?  It  is  as  unworthy  of  yourself  as  it  is 
unfair  to  her  ! '  And  think,  Martha,  I  beheved  him 
—  believed  it  was  merely  a  union  of  souls.  That,  of 
course,  I  didn't  mind.  And  by  the  way,  Martha, 
have  you  noticed  that  so  long  as  a  woman  lacks 
physical  attraction  —  or  so  long  as  we  think  she 
does  —  our  minds  are  at  ease?  But  alas  !  you  can, 
never  be  sure  what  constitutes  physical  attraction 
with  a  poet.  Only  of  one  thing  be  sure  — that  when- 
ever he  speaks  of  the  soul  he  means,  well  —  the 
body.  Well,  as  I  say,  Francis  took  me  in  com- 
pletely, and  this  pretty  '  friendship  '  went  on  right 
under  my  nose,  without  my  having  a  suspicion  of  its 
real  nature  —  till  the  day  came  when  our  engage- 
ment was  formally  announced  to  our  friends  ..." 

Ruth  paused,  her  black  eyes  flashing  once  more 
with  ancient  memories. 

"And  then?  ..."  prompted  Martha,  interested 
as  only  another  married  woman  could  be  in  such 
a  story. 


254  Painted  Shadows 

"  Well,  an  evening  or  two  after  our  engagement 
had  been  announced,  who  should  come  to  pay  me 
a  visit  but  our  little  inspiration  girl,  whom  in  the 
innocence  of  my  heart  I  had  grown  to  look  on 
quite  as  a  friend.  It  was  part  of  Francis's  wicked 
scheme  to  disarm  criticism  by  bringing  us  together 
occasionally,  and  she  would  sometimes  come  and 
take  tea  with  me,  and  talk  in  a  winning  pathetic 
way  she  had,  which  would  have  taken  in  the  devil 
himself  So  her  visit  was  no  particular  surprise. 
Indeed,  poor  soul,  my  first  thought  was  that  she 
had  come  to  congratulate  me  on  my  engagement. 
So  successfully  had  they  fooled  me  ..." 

"The  wretches  !  "  ejaculated  Martha,  sympathet- 
ically. 

"  '  It  is  sweet  of  you  to  come  like  this,  Stella,'  I 
said  in  my  innocence.  She  flushed  slightly  with 
a  momentary  embarrassment,  but  quickly  recovered 
her  self-possession  —  of  which,  as  a  rule,  I  may 
say,  the  expression  '  triple  brass '  gives  but  a  faint 
idea.  '  Child  ! '  she  said  —  she  had  an  amusingly 
superior  way  of  calling  every  one  'child'  —  men 
and  women  alike,  particularly  men — 'Child!'  — 
and  she  took  both  my  hands,  and  looked  one  of 
her  particularly  sincere,  soul-melting  looks  deep 
into  my  eyes  —  *  child  !  I  would  give  anything 
not  to  have  to  say  what  I  have  come  to  say  to-night 
—  anything  to  save  you  the  pain  of  it.     If  it  were 


The  Woman  in  Possession        255 

only  for  myself,  I  would  never  say  it  —  but,  by  my 
love  for  my  mother,  which,  as  you  know,  is  the 
most  sacred  thing  in  my  life,  I  swear  that  I  do  it 
more  for  his  sake  than  my  own  ..." 

"'For  his  sake  !  '  said  I.  '  What  do  you  mean? 
Pray  sit  down  and  explain  yourself 

"  '  I  mean,'  she  said,  '  that  you  must  never  marry 
Francis  Darley  .  .  . ' 

"  '  Indeed,'  said  I,  '  and  would  you  mind  explain- 
ing why  not?  .  .  .' 

"'Because  he  doesn't  really  love  you.  He 
makes  you  believe  so.  But  he  does  n't  really  love 
you  —  as  you  deserve  to  be  loved  .  .  .  '  " 

"  She  had  the  impudence  to  say  that !  "  cried  the 
sympathetic  Martha. 

"  '  Go  on,'  I  said,"  continued  Ruth. 

"  '  Well,'  she  explained,  '  he  really  loves  me  — 
but  he  has  n't  the  strength  to  tell  you  so  him- 
self .  .  . ' 

"  I  was  so  dumfounded,  not  so  much  by  what 
she  was  saying  as  by  the  calm  effrontery  of  her 
saying  it,  that  I  sat  silent,  just  nodding  to  her  to 
proceed. 

" '  You  see,  child,  you  and  he  have  been  en- 
gaged a  long  time,  and  he  feels  in  honour  bound 
to  you.  And,  of  course,  he  loves  you  too,  in  a 
way  .  ,  . ' 

"  '  Thank  you  .  .  . '  said  I. 


256  Painted  Shadows 

"  *  O  don't  be  angry  with  me,  Ruth.  Am  I  hurt- 
ing you?' 

"  *  Not  in  the  least,'  said  I ;  *  I  am  interested  — 
that 's  all.     Please  go  on.' 

'"Well,  as  I  said,  he  is  truly  fond  of  you  —  but, 
well !  there  is  —  you  must  forgive  me,  Ruth,  so 
much  in  him  you  don't  understand,  don't  answer 
to  ...  ' 

"  '  It 's  true  I  can't  rave  over  Pater,'  I  said,  *  but 
go  on  .  .  .' 

" '  Pater  is  perhaps  a  deeper  bond  than  you 
imagine,  Ruth,'  she  went  on  with  unruffled  calm- 
ness; 'but,  of  course,  what  I  mean  is  more  and 
deeper  than  that.  In  short,  I  know  that  I  am  the 
woman  who,  more  than  any  woman  he  has  ever 
known,  meets  him  at  every  point  of  his  nature  .  .  . ' 

" '  Do  you  know  how  many  women  he  has 
loved?'   I  asked. 

"  *  O  yes !  he  has  spoken  all  out  honestly  to 
me.  I  understand  his  nature.  They  were  but 
part  of  his  development  .  .  . '" 

"  Poor  things  !  "  interrupted  Martha. 

"'Leading  up  to  you?'  I  added  with  womanly 
sarcasm. 

'"I  know  it  sounds  conceited,  Ruth  —  and,  O 
child,  rt'^;/'/ suffer  —  but  I  believe  what  you  say  is 
true.  I  do  truly  believe  that  ours  is  the  true  unity 
of  the  spirit.     That  sounds  like  cant,  I  know,  but  I 


The  Woman  in  Possession        257 

cannot  help  it  —  for  of  this  I  am  as  sure  as  of  my 
Hfe  itself  that  I  have  never  known  any  one  who  is 
so  myself,  who  so  embodies  all  that  I  really  care 
for  in  this  world.  There  is  no  need  for  him  to 
assure  me  that  we  care  for  each  other — because 
we  are  so  like.  He  knows  that  and  I  know  it,  and 
a  hundred  times  we  say  it  to  each  other :  "  No  one 
ever  said  that  to  me  but  you.  I  never  dreamed 
any  one  felt  this  but  I."  That  absolute  quality  that 
I  have  always  supposed  means  love  is  the  love  we 
both  have  —  and  nothing  can  take  that  away  from 
me  .  .  . ' 

"  She  stopped,  and  looked  at  me,  expecting  me 
to  speak.     At  last  I  did. 

•' '  If  Francis  has  made  you  believe  all  this,  he  is 
a  better  liar  than  I  thought,'  I  said,  *  and  I  am  not 
proud  of  the  part  he  has  played.' 

"  'You  mean,'  said  she,  entirely  unshaken  in  her 
confidence,  '  that  he  has  been  lying  to  me.  It  is 
impossible  ...  * 

"  '  Not  perhaps,  deliberately,'  I  said  ;  '  Francis 
would  regard  such  deliberate  lying  as  vulgar. 
Besides,  there  would  be  no  amusement  in  it  for 
him.  No !  he  has  undoubtedly  meant  what  he 
said  when  he  said  it.  If  he  has  deceived  you,  he 
has  deceived  himself  as  well.  If  you  know  him,  as 
you  say  you  do,  you  must  know  what  a  creature 
of  moods  he    is,  how  he  is  carried  away  by  the 

17 


258  Painted  Shadows 

moment  and  the  last  new  influence,  and  acts,  or 
rather  talks,  accordingly  .  .  . ' 

"  But  this  had  no  effect  whatever.  She  listened 
to  me  tolerantly,  with  a  look  of  anguished  pity, 
which  is  her  own  patent.  '  Indeed,  I  wish  for  your 
sake,  child,  that  you  were  right.  I  know  his  moods, 
of  course,  and  for  a  long  while  discounted  what  he 
said  to  me  on  account  of  them  .  .  .  but,  see,  I 
hate  to  do  it,'  and  she  turned  to  a  small  hand-bag 
she  had  brought  with  her.  '  I  have  here  some  of 
his  letters.  Here  is  one  of  them.  Will  you  read 
this  .  .  .'" 

"  She  had  the  vulgarity  to  bring  you  his  let- 
ters !  .  .  . "  exclaimed  the  simple  Martha,  who 
likewise  does  not  read  Pater. 

"  She  had  —  and  the  fiendish  cruelty,  too." 

"Never  mind  the  cruelty — that  was  perhaps, 
after  all,  only  the  woman  fighting  for  her  life  —  but 
the  vulgarity,  Ruth  —  think  of  the  vulgarity  !  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  forgot  that  at  the  moment.  My 
heart  was  beating  too  cruelly  from  fear  of  what  I 
was  about  to  read  ..." 

*'  And  ..."  prompted  Martha. 

"  Well,  Francis  had  been  a  devil,  and  no  mistake 
If  I  had  n't  loved  him  as  I  did  —  " 

"  But  what  was  in  the  letter?  "  queried  practical 
Martha. 

"Just  everything  .  .  .  No  wonder  the  poor  girl 


The  Woman  in  Possession        259 

felt  confident  of  his  love.  She  could  hardly  have 
felt  anything  else.  '  Give  me  another,'  I  said  ;  and 
she  handed  me  another  from  an  enormous  bundle 
tied  up  with  a  corset  lace. 

" '  Heavens  ! '  I  exclaimed,  as  I  noted  the  size 
of  the  bundle.     '  How  often  did  he  write  to  you?' 

"  '  Once  every  day,'  she  answered,  '  and  some- 
times twice,  even  three  times.' 

"  '  Another?  '  I  asked,  and  again,  *  Another?  '  till 
I  had  read  about  twenty.  She  handed  them  to  me 
in  a  dead  silence.  I  felt  as  though  she  were  stran- 
gling me,  and  all  the  time  I  read  she  watched  me 
with  her  cold,  moon-lit  eyes.  At  last  I  could  bear 
no  more  of  them. 

" '  Enough  .  .  . '  I  said,  and  we  both  sat  still,  as 
it  seemed  for  a  long  w^iile.  I  confess  that  the 
letters  had  staggered  me.  Was  she  right,  after 
all?  I  asked  myself.  Did  he  really  love  her  best, 
and  was  he  only  marrying  me,  as  she  said,  to  keep 
his  word  ?  I  took  up  the  last  letter,  and  read  it 
again.  It  sounded  terribly  real,  a  simple  cri  de 
cceuTy  you  would  have  said,  if  ever  anything  was 
written  from  the  heart  —  which,  by  the  way, 
Martha,  living  with  a  poet  has  long  caused  me  to 
doubt.  It  was  cruel  reading,  and  it  so  shook  my 
faith  in  Francis's  love  for  me  that  I  found  myself 
clutching  at  a  thought  that  began  to  form  in  my 
mind.     Suppose  it  were  true  that  Francis  did  in 


26o  Painted  Shadows 

his  way  love  us  both  —  equally,  I  forced  myself  to 
say.  Suppose  the  scales  were  about  even,  and 
he  hardly  knew  which  of  us  to  choose?  Was  n't 
Stella  in  this  very  act  of  showing  me  these  letters 
unconsciously  throwing  something  into  my  side  of 
the  scales  which  would  outweigh  her  in  Francis's 
mind  once  and  for  ever  ?  For  Francis,  wayward  as 
he  is,  and  wicked  as  undoubtedly  he  had  been,  has 
a  sound,  kind  heart,  which  nothing  can  alienate 
like  deliberate  cruelty,  particularly  when  it  is  mean 
and  small  ..." 

"  And  vulgar  ..."  Martha  once  more  inter- 
posed. 

"  The  more  the  thought  grew,  the  more  comfort 
it  gave  me.  *  Perhaps,  after  all,'  I  said  to  myself, 
*  she  has  unconsciously  done  me  a  great  service. 
For,  unless  I  am  entirely  out  of  it  in  my  reading  of 
Francis,  he  cannot  possibly  go  on  caring  for  any 
one  capable  of  this  action  of  Stella's.  It  flashes 
too  fierce  a  light  into  the  mean  recesses  of  her 
nature.  If  I  am  not  very  wrong,  he  will  welcome 
this  self-revelation  of  hers  as  a  deliverance  from  an 
unsuspected  evil  —  for  I  know  that  he  has  thought 
of  her  as  the  gentlest  and  most  delicate-natured  of 
women.  Over  and  over  again,  he  has  spoken  of 
her  tenderness,  her  exquisite  refinement  .  .  ,  but 
now  ...  * 

"'Well? 'said  Stella,  interrupting  these  reflec- 


The  Woman  in  Possession        261 

tions,  which  I  imagine  had  been  clearing  my  face 
of  some  of  its  first  perplexity.  At  all  events,  they 
had  helped  to  calm  me,  and  when  I  answered  I  felt 
that  I  had  regained  command  of  myself. 

" '  I  think,'  I  said,  '  that  Francis  has  behaved 
most  unworthily  toward  both  of  us,  and  in  a  way 
most  unworthy  of  himself.  After  reading  these 
letters,  I  cannot  blame  you  for  thinking  as  you  say, 
and,  if  my  faith  in  his  love  for  me  relied  upon 
letters,  I  confess  that  these  letters  to  you  would 
have  shattered  it ;  but  .  .  . ' 

"  '  You  still,  then,  believe  in  his  love  for  you  ?  * 

" '  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  do.' 

"  '  Suppose  I  were  to  tell  you  .  .  . ' 

"  '  Tell  me  anything  —  tell  me  all.'  " 

"  And  did  she?  "  interrupted  Martha  once  more. 

"  She  did,  indeed.  It  did  n't  make  so  much 
difference  as  she  expected  —  did  n't  hurt  me  half 
so  much  as  those  letters ;  and,  besides,  it  added 
greater  strength  to  that  growing  feeling  of  security. 
What  would  Francis  think  of  a  woman  who  could 
so  shamelessly  reveal  herself —  for  the  poor  end  of 
vanquishing  a  rival?  ..." 

"  But  what  did  you  say?  "  prompted  Martha. 

"  I  said  nothing  for  so  long  that  she  began  to 
believe  I  was  crushed,  began  to  grow  sorry  for 
me  .  .    .  '  Dear,'  she  said  ..." 

"The  vixen!"  murmured  Martha. 


262  Painted  Shadows 

"  *  Dear,  you  must  be  brave.  You  will  be  brave, 
I  know.  Yes,  be  very  brave.  In  the  end  it  will 
all  have  helped  you,  I  know  it  will,  and,  O  child, 
let  me  try  and  help  you  —  depend  upon  me  to  do 
all  I  can.  Believe  that  no  one  in  the  wide  world 
would  give  more  to  see  you  happy  than  I  ...  It 
is  not  for  myself  I  have  spoken.  It  is  for  him.  He 
has  been  so  unhappy  all  his  life,  always  seeking 
and  never  finding,  and  now  that  at  last  .  .  . ' 
Well,  you  can  guess  the   rest,   Martha." 

"  And,  again,  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  I  just  smiled  at  her,  and  let  her  go 
on  —  till  at  last  she  grew  a  little  uneasy  at  my 
tranquillized  expression,  and  stopped  suddenly. 

"'Why  do  you  smile?'  she  asked.  'Are  you 
still   sure   of  his  love?* 

"  '  Yes  !  '  I  answered. 

"'Will  nothing  convince  you?' 

"  '  Nothing  but  his  actions.' 

"  '  How  do  you  mean?  ' 

"  '  I  mean  this,'  I  said,  speaking  deliberately, 
'  that  I  shall  see  Francis  to-night,  and  tell  him  all 
you  have  told  me.  Perhaps  you  will  lend  me  one 
of  his  letters  ?  ' 

"  '  With  pleasure,'  she  answered. 

"  '  I  will  tell  him  all  you  have  told  me  —  and 
then  I  will  go  away  for  six  months  .  .  .  ' 

"'And?'  she  queried. 


The  Woman  in  Possession        263 

" '  Leave  the  field  open  to  you.' 

"'And  what  do  you  expect  from  that?'  she 
retorted. 

"  *  I  expect  nothing.  I  shall  just  wait  and  see 
what  happens.  That  is  all.  If  you  are  right,  and 
he  really  loves  you  best  ...  he  will  have  the 
opportunity  of  proving  it.  I  shall  exert  no  influ- 
ence upon  him  whatsoever.  I  will  not  write  to  him, 
nor  will  I  allow  him  to  write  to  me.  If  six  months 
is  too  short  a  time  for  the  test,  take  a  year.  If  I 
loved  him  less,  I  would  say  good-bye  to  him  this 
moment.  But  I  am  a  woman.  I  love  him — and 
if  he  truly  loves  me  .  .  .  well,  I  will  forgive  him 
everything.  I  doubt  if  you  could  say  the  same. 
Reading  Pater  together  is  one  thing,  love  is  an- 
other.   We  shall  see  which  he  values  more  .  .  .  '  " 

"Well,  what  happened  next?"  prompted  Mar- 
tha once  more. 

"  I  saw  Francis  that  evening,  and  next  day  I 
packed  myself  off  to  Spain." 

"And  Francis?" 

"  He  has  never  seen  or  written  to  her  since. 
He  took  her  action  just  as  I  thought  he  would,  and, 
indeed,  felt  his  pride  wounded  because  he  had 
allowed  himself  to  be  infatuated  by  so  essentially 
common  a  nature." 

"And  at  the  end  of  the  six  months ?  "  said  Martha. 

"  We  were  married." 


264  Painted  Shadows 

"  H'm  !  "  said  Martha,  meditatively.  "  She  had 
played  her  trump  card  — and  lost," 

"And  what  had  Francis  to  say  for  himself  ?"  asked 
Martha,  presently.  "  His  part  in  the  drama  does  not 
strike  me  as  particularly  pretty  —  however  easily  a 
too  indulgent  wife  may  overlook  it  ...  " 

"  His  explanation  was  the  most  naive  thing  you 
ever  heard,"  answered  Ruth.  "  '  When  a  man  is  in 
love  with  two  women  at  once,'  he  said,  '  what  can 
he  do  but  lie  to  each  of  them  —  about  the  other? ' 

"  '  You  were  in  love,  then?  '  I  said. 

" '  Yes !  in  a  way  —  in  a  way  I  have  been  a 
score  of  times,  and  shall  probably  be  again  .  .  .' 

"  *  When  one  is  so  often  in  love,'  I  retorted, 
'  don't  you  think  one  should  find  some  other  de- 
scription for  one's  feeling?' 

"  '  Yes !  but  the  feeling  deserves  a  nice  name,' 
he  answered.    '  It  is  not  to  be  confused  with  .  .  . ' 

"  *  Francis  ! '  I  said,  '  I  want  no  more  of  your 
talk  about  a  union  of  souls.  A  kiss  is  a  kiss  — 
whatever  the  motive.  You  remember  that  Paolo 
and  Francesca  were  reading  together  —  that  day 
they  read  no  more.  Probably  they  would  have 
explained  the  situation  to  Lanciotto  -7-  as  a  com- 
mon  interest  in  Pater !  .  .  . ' 

"  '  Ruth,'  he  said,  taking  me  in  his  arms, '  you  are 
far  too  clever.    There  is  no  need  for  you  to  read  Pater.' 


The  Woman  in  Possession        265 

"  *  I  am  a  woman  who  loves  you,'  I  said.  '  And 
love  is  a  clever  god.  He  is  so  clever  that  he  has 
taught  me  to  understand  even  you  —  taught  me  to 
understand  that  you  do  really  love  me  best  in  spite 
of —  the  little  kisses.* 

"  '  Never  mind  those,'  he  said,  '  they  only  teach 
me  to  value  yours  the  more.  Shall  I  say  a  poem 
I  made  for  you  the  other  day? ' 

" '  You  fraud,'  I  laughed,  '  say  it,  of  course,  so 
long  as  you  don  't  expect  me  to  believe  it.'  And 
this  is  the  poem !     I  have  it  by  heart,"  said  Ruth. 

"  '  Through  the  many  to  the  one  — 

Oh,  so  many  ! 
Kissing  all  and  missing  none, 

Loving  any. 
Would  you  know  how  sweet  is  love 

Monogamic  ? 
Try  a  year  or  two  of  love 

Polygamic ! 

" '  Would  you  know  how  dear  is  one, 

Leave  the  others; 
Loving  all  is  loving  none, 

True  love  smothers  — 
Smothers  all  his  heavenly  flame. 

Kissing  any  — 
Loving  much  is  not  the  same 

As  loving  many.'  " 

"  Yes !  he  certainly  is  a  fraud,"  was  Martha's 
comment. 


266  Painted  Shadows 

"  You  know  nothing  at  all  about  him,"  retorted 
Ruth. 

"  What  happened  to  the  girl  ? "  asked  Martha. 
"  I  confess  I  grow  a  little  sorry  for  her," 

"You  needn't  be,"  said  Ruth.  "After  all, 
Francis  knows  women.  He  could  not  have  acted 
as  he  did,  had  he  not  known  that  it  was  out  of  his 
power  to  cause  her  any  hurt.  *  Her  little  egoism 
makes  her  fire-proof,'  he  used  to  say.  '  The  egoism 
of  the  great  is  sensitive  to  the  tiniest  sting,  but  the 
egoism  of  the  little  is  invulnerable.  She  will  go 
on  believing  to  the  end  of  her  life  that  I  have 
never  loved  any  woman  but  her;  and  that  is  all 
she  cares  about  —  for  her  love  was  just  vanity.  Do 
you  think  I  failed  to  see  that?' 

" '  I  'm  not  sure  I  Hke  that,  Francis,'  I  said. 
'Can't  you  do  something  to  disillusion  her?' 

" '  I  'm  afraid  I  can  do  nothing,  except  what  I 
am  doing  —  and  going  to  do  for  ever  .  .  .  ' 

"'What's  that?'  said  I. 

"  '  Love  you,'  he  answered  —  and,  next  morning, 
when  by  chance  I  had  slept  rather  late,  I  found 
this  little  verse,  twisted  like  a  curl-paper  in  my 
hair.     He  called  it  '  The  Ghost.' 

"  '  Please,  sweetheart,  let  her  thin  ghost  rest  — 
The  devil  take  that  tiresome  Past ! 
I  loved  you  first,  I  love  you  last, 
And  always  have  I  loved  you  best.'  " 


The  Woman  in  Possession        267 

**  A  poem  seems  to  make  up  for  a  good  deal," 
said  Martha. 

"  It  does,"  answered  Ruth,  "  if  you  love  the 
poet." 

Martha  stayed  for  dinner,  and  the  moon  rose ; 
and  when  ten  o'clock  came,  she  kissed  Ruth  with 
a  certain  curious  respect,  and  went  home.  Martha 
was  a  very  shrewd  specialist  of  her  sex.  At  first, 
and  for  a  long  while,  she  had  suspected  that  Ruth 
was  bravely  making  the  best  of  it,  as  so  many  wives 
have  to  do  ;  but  the  longer  she  talked  with  her  the 
more  she  became  convinced  that  Ruth  was  really  a 
happy  woman.  She  herself  could  not  understand 
happiness  on  such  conditions  ;  but  then  — there  are 
so  many  ways  of  being  happy. 

If  she  had  seen  Francis  Barley's  return  home  a 
few  moments  after  her  departure,  she  would  have 
been  still  further  corroborated  in  her  reading  of  — 
to  her  —  an  uncommon  situation. 

There  was  not  the  smallest  shadow  of  a  question 
on  Ruth's  face  as  she  welcomed  her  husband  in 
from  the  moonlight. 

"  How  you  smell  of  the  country, "  she  said, 
"  the  pines,  and  the  broad  commons !  Did  you 
have  a  good  time,  little  boy?" 

"  Ruth,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know  how  I  love 
you?" 

"  Of  course,  I  do,"  she  answered,  "  otherwise  do 


268  Painted  Shadows 

you  think  I  would  let  you  run  off  with  pretty, 
young  actresses  like  that?" 

"  I  'm  so  glad  you  used  the  plural,"  said  Francis, 
laughing. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  my  safety  is  in  numbers." 

"  I  want  to  say  a  little  poem  I  made  as  I  came 
along,"  said  Francis,  presently.  "You'll  never 
guess  whom  it  is  written  to?" 

"  To  me,  of  course,"  she  said. 

" '  Dear  wife,  there  is  no  verse  in  all  my  songs 
But  unto  thee  belongs,'  " 

quoted  Francis,  laughingly.  "  But  you  're  right 
—  it  is  for  you  ..." 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 

"  Little  mother,"  he  said,  seating  himself  at  her 
knees  by  the  fire,  and  looking  up  into  her  face,  "  I 
am  so  glad  to  be  back  home.  Do  you  believe 
I  love  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do  !  "  she  answered.  "  You  are 
only  a  little  child,  and  you  cannot  live  without 
your  mother  .  .  .  But  say  your  poem,  like  a  good 
child."     And  Francis  recited  as  follows : 

"  I  did  not  know  I  loved  you,  love,  like  this : 

I  thought  our  love  was  chance  and  passing  need; 
Your  eyes  were  very  brown,  and  O  your  kiss 

Was  sweet  indeed  — 
Yet  dreamed  I  not  of  loving  you  like  this. 


The  Woman  in  Possession        269 

"  You  stole  so  unannounced  into  my  life, 

No  fatal  premonitions  or  alarms 
Told  me  that  you  — well !  that  you  were  my  wife ; 

There  were  your  arms  — 
And  unannounced  I  stole  into  your  life. 

"  Had  someone  asked  me  of  you,  I  had  said : 
'  It  is  too  late  to  meet  her  —  long  ago 
She  is  a  dream,  or  maybe  she  is  dead  ; 

I  do  not  know 
More  to  tell  any  of  her,'  I  had  said. 

"  And  now,  beloved,  too  well  you  know  the  rest  — 
One  woman  must  be  heaven,  and  earth,  and  hell ; 
So  soft,  yet  so  responsible,  a  breast ! 

I  said  '  Too  well  '  — 
Love,  is  my  head  too  heavy  for  your  breast  ?  " 

"  You  made  that  in  your  head  as  you  came 
along?"  said  Ruth,  when  he  had  finished. 

"  No,  in  my  heart." 

"  But  she  inspired  it .''  " 

"  What  if  she  did  ?  You  cannot  surely  object 
to  an  inspiration  girl  who  inspires  me  with  poems 

—  to  my  wife?  " 

"Did  you  say  it  to  her?" 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"  I  believe  you  did." 

"Believe  me,  I  did  not  —  but  even  suppose  I  did 

—  I  will  admit  that  I  am  capable  of  reciting  a  new 
poem  to  a  hack-driver,  or  a  car-conductor,  to 
anyone  who  happens  to  be  present  —  even  suppose 


270  Painted  Shadows 

that  I  did  recite  it  to  her:  what  does  that  matter 
so  long  as  it  was  written  to  you?  " 

"  But  she  might  think  you  meant  it  for  her?  " 

"What  if  she  did?" 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Ruth,  "  what  does  it 
matter  ?  ...  so  long,"  she  added,  "  as  you  are 
quite  sure  it  was  written  for  me 

And  Francis  was  quite  sure. 


DEAR    DEAD    WOMEN 


DEAR   DEAD   WOMEN 

N^  OT  the  sacred  women  who  lie  in  their 
shrouds,  pillowed  upon  their  golden  hair, 
but  the  living  women  who  once  loved  us 
and  love  us  no  more — those  are  the  really  dead 
women.  The  women  whose  eyes  are  closed  seem 
near  and  human  in  comparison  with  those  horrible 
women  who,  though  really  dead,  contrive  to  go  on 
existing  —  or  making  a  ghasdy  semblance  of  exist- 
ence—  without  us.  It  makes  one's  flesh  creep  to 
think  of  them,  and  to  meet  them  again  is  really  to 
have  seen  a  ghost. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  start  it  gave  me,  when, 
after  seeing  or  hearing  nothing  of  her  for  four 
years,  I  suddenly  came  upon  Meriel — drinking 
champagne  in  a  merry  company.  She  had  even 
the  heartlessness  to  lift  her  glass  to  me,  and  smile  ! 
Horrible  resurrection  !  Do  the  dead  rise  like  that? 
I  looked  at  her  with  something  like  fear,  almost 
expecting  her  to  fade  away,  a  phantom  of  my  dis- 
ordered brain;  but  no!  she  persisted  —  persisted 
drinking  champagne.     Yes,  surely  it  was  Meriel. 


274  Painted  Shadows 

How  strange  it  was!  Still  Meriel,  and  still  — 
drinking  champagne. 

And  it  was  all  gone  then  —  all  nothing  to  her  — 
all  that  divine  past  of  ours  —  ah  !  speak  of  it  softly 
—  all  gone,  all  nothing  to  her !  O  Meriel,  you 
ca7tnot  have  forgotten.  It  was  all  so  dear,  so  good, 
so  true,  so  wonderful !  O  love,  the  stars  and  the 
dews  of  it,  and  the  heavenly  voices,  and  all  the 
kindness,  all  the  laughter.  Oh,  you  cannot  have 
forgotten.  Or  are  you  wicked  now,  and  has  time 
indeed  turned  the  old  dreams  to  derision? 

Meriel,  I  cannot  stay.  I  will  not  watch  you 
there — drinking  champagne;  or  will  you  come 
back,  and  drink  it  with  me,  drink  it  with  me  and 
no  one  else  for  ever ! 

So  whirled  my  mad  thoughts  till  I  could  support 
them  no  more,  and  I  fled  from  those  lit  and  laugh- 
ing diners ;  but  as  I  went,  Meriel  raised  her  glass 
again,  and  smiled. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  gulf  quite  so  impassable  as 
that  which  divides  us  from  the  woman  who  loved 
us  once,  but  who  loves  us  no  more ;  nor  is  there 
any  woman  so  sternly  inaccessible  —  to  us  —  as 
she  whom  we  once  won  —  and  then  lost.  Life  has 
no  stranger  thing  in  it  than  this :  that  two  people 
should  be  all  the  world  to  each  other ;  that  they 
should  share  all  the  sacredness,  all  the  tenderness, 
of  existence  together,  be  closely  united  by  a  thou- 


Dear  Dead  Women  275 

sand  ties  of  loving  intercourse,  and  that  suddenly 
all  this  enchanted  intimacy  should  pass  away,  as 
though  indeed  it  were  a  mere  trick  of  enchant- 
ment, to  be  replaced  by  an  alienation  so  profound 
that  no  two  people,  however  unacquainted,  are 
now  so  far  from  each  other  as  these  two  who  were 
once  so  near. 

It  is  surely  the  very  strangest  thing  that  any- 
one else  in  the  world  may  approach  Meriel  but  — 
I.  I  of  all  people  !  The  very  smallest  amenity  is 
denied  me.  Others  may  flirt  with  her,  make  her 
little  presents,  write  her  pretty  letters,  take  her  to 
see  the  play,  be  permitted  to  kiss  her  hand,  and 
generally  behave  in  a  way  that  —  if  it  were  I,  how 
well  I  can  imagine  the  haughty  "  Sir !  "  that  would 
transfix  me  with  interjections,  were  I  to  attempt 
the  most  innocent  of  these  liberties.  Such  divin- 
ity doth  hedge  a  woman  ! 

In  the  company  of  such  reflections  it  is  hard  not 
to  be  cynical  about  human  relationships,  and  if  we 
escape  cynicism,  we  must  at  least  sorrowfully  ask 
ourselves :  What,  then,  is  durable  in  human  life,  if 
this  could  pass  away?  On  what  shall  a  man  build, 
if  love  like  this  can  so  pitiably,  almost  ludicrously, 
come  to  naught?  Almost  ludicrously  —  for  such 
a  bankruptcy  throws  a  shadow  of  ridicule  upon  all 
human  credit.  What  do  human  feelings  and  hu- 
man vows  amount  to,  if  one  day  they  can  seem  so 


276  Painted  Shadows 

stable  and  so  infinitely  important,  and  the  next  day 
be  so  much  east  wind  ! 

Yes !  it  is  no  mere  egoism  that  prompts  the 
pang  with  which  we  think  of  someone  we  have 
loved  as  happy  and  shining  somewhere  out  there 
in  the  human  infinitude  —  in  spite  of  all  that  has 
been  and  can  never  be  again.  There  is  something 
in  the  feeling,  too,  of  a  fine  impersonal  jealousy 
for  the  memory  of  a  beautiful  thing.  We  resent 
this  oblivion  no  little,  as  we  resent  the  forgetful- 
ness  of  some  fair  deed,  or  the  neglect  of  some 
noble  name.  Our  love  is  dead  indeed  —  but  let  us 
not  forget  how  lovely  a  thing  it  was  in  its  life ;  let 
us  think  of  it  with  that  reverence  due  to  all  beau- 
tiful history;  let  us  even  sometimes  scatter  secret 
violets  upon  its  grave,  the  violets  of  the  Past  and 
Gone. 

I  think  we  have  too  little  reverence  for  our  own 
histories,  too  little,  indeed,  of  that  attitude  of  mind 
which  made  young  Sir  Thomas  Browne  declare  his 
life  "  a  miracle  of  thirty  years."  Busy,  maybe, 
with  the  emotional  present,  we  press  on  toward 
the  new  raptures,  the  new  faces  —  forgetful  of  all 
that  old  treasure  of  the  heart.  It  were  well,  I 
think,  to  give  ourselves  a  little  time  to  meditate  on 
that.  And  for  this  it  is  good,  on  occasion,  to  be 
all  alone  —  alone,  say,  in  a  great  foreign  city,  lonely 
with  a  million  lighted  windows. 


Dear  Dead  Women  277 

Such  a  loneliness  is  mine  to-night,  and,  as  from 
a  watch-tower  I  mark  the  lamps  of  pleasure  break- 
ing into  blossoms  of  gold  in  the  twilight,  and  hear 
afar  off  the  growing  hum  of  dinner  and  theatre,  and 
the  fragrant  rustle  of  a  hundred  thousand  night- 
flowering  women,  I  say  to  myself:  I  wonder  for 
whom  Miranda  is  dressing  to-night  —  for  whom  is 
she  coiling  her  splendid  hair,  crimson  as  a  field  of 
poppies,  and  just  as  full  of  sleep.  I  can  see  her 
so  plainly.  She  is  like  a  vivid  poster  on  the  walls 
of  my  heart.  For  whom  is  that  radiance  of  ex- 
pectancy in  her  blue  eyes,  that  faint  flush  of  ex- 
citement on  her  cheek,  as  she  raises  her  white 
arms  to  her  head,  and  thrusts  in  here  and  there 
the  amber  pins?  Ah!  that  throat,  those  shoul- 
ders, Miranda,  in  the  glass !  They  were  mine 
once.  Whose  are  they  to-night?  How  blond 
they  are,  how  abundant  —  like  a  field  of  wheat, 
with  the  sun  on  it,  I  once  said ;  yes !  wrote  some- 
thing like  it  in  a  poem  —  a  poem  Miranda  has  for- 
gotten, at  least  to-night.  I  have  forgotten  it,  too, 
but  Miranda  I  have  not  forgotten.  I  hate  the  man 
she  is  dining  with  to-night,  whoever  he  may  be. 
I  can  see  him  calling  for  her,  shiningly  groomed, 
and  smiling  fatuously  with  self-congratulation. 
He  is  so  happy  to  be  taking  Miranda  out  to  din- 
ner. He  is  thinking  that  at  last  the  long  dry  stalk 
of  the  day  is  about  to  blossom.     He  is  thinking 


278  Painted  Shadows 

that  in  a  few  moments  Miranda  will  be  seated  by 
him  in  a  hansom,  a  thrilling  garden  of  fragrance 
and  gauzy  convolutions  of  silk  and  lace  — 

"  Awake,  O  north  wind ;  and  come,  thou  south :  blow 
upon  my  garden,  that  the  spices  thereof  may  flow  out !  " 

She  will  take  his  hand  and  give  him  a  long 
sweet  look,  and  they  will  each  heave  a  glad  little 
sigh  because  they  are  together  at  last,  and  the 
man  will  say,  "  I  am  so  happy,"  and  she  will  an- 
swer, "  So  am  I."  And  then  they  will  be  driven 
off  to  paradise. 

Far  from  them  indeed  is  the  thought  of  the 
poor,  lonely  ghost  that  is  I.  And  yet,  Miranda, 
we  used  to  think  our  httle  dinners  wonderful  occa- 
sions, too,  if  you  remember;  and  you  used  to  say 
that  I  .  .  .  well,  never  mind  —  you  have  evidently 
forgotten  it  all,  forgotten  all  the  fun  and  the  fairy- 
tale of  it,  and  all  the  happy  childishness.  I  must 
remember  for  both ;  so  to-night,  across  three  thou- 
sand miles  of  foam,  I  am  thinking  of  you,  Mi- 
randa. "  I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara,  in 
my  fashion !  " 

Miranda  has  gone  out  to  dinner,  and  I  am  once 
more  alone  looking  out  over  the  terrible  city,  lying 
beneath  me  like  some  monster  with  a  million 
golden  eyes.  O  the  abysses  of  infinite  solitude, 
the  heights,  the  depths,  that  surround  on  every 


Dear  Dead  Women  279 

side  the  tiny  spark  of  one's  being  —  and,  perhaps 
deepest  and  darkest  of  all,  the  innermost  abyss  of 
the  soul.  I  shiver,  and  turn  from  the  window,  but 
that  abyss  within  my  lonely  room  is  lonelier  still ; 
and  I  am  back  at  the  window  again  —  for  there  at 
least  are  lights  and  the  human  murmur. 

And  presently  another  face  has  come  to  join  me 
in  my  solitude,  as  though  a  great  white  moth  had 
floated  up  to  me  out  of  the  night —  a  face  of  ame- 
thyst and  silver,  a  shining,  stricken  face  of  tears 
and  dreams,  a  face  my  heart  dare  hardly  look  upon 
because  the  face  is  still  so  dear.  This  face  and  I 
have  shared  so  many  sorrows  together,  have  loved 
our  love  so  well,  yet  has  it  slipped  from  our  hands 
like  a  pearl  that  has  fallen  into  the  sea,  and  there 
is  only  the  bitter  sea  left  to  us,  and  the  lonely  wind, 

O  did  you  think  I  was  glad,  Isabel,  that  our 
pearl  had  fallen  into  the  sea  — did  you  think  that? 
Ah  !  come  and  look  in  my  heart  to-night. 

Do  you  remember,  Isabel,  that  evening  we 
walked  along  the  shining  levels  of  sand  by  the 
Northern  Sea  —  and  there  was  still  light  enough  for 
me  to  write  a  verse  for  you  on  the  hard  sand  ?  We 
walked  till  the  moon  rose,  and  when  we  came  back 
to  read  our  verse  by  its  light,  lo  !  the  rising  tide 
was  already  washing  it  away.  Do  you  remember 
that  night? 

Do   you   remember   that  other   night  when  we 


28o  Painted  Shadows 

walked  through  the  sweet-smelling  Devon  lanes 
again  by  the  sea?  Your  face  seemed  made  of 
starlight  and  your  body  of  silver  mist,  as  you 
floated,  rather  than  walked,  by  my  side;  and  I  was 
half  afraid  of  you  —  you  looked  so  like  a  spirit,  or  a 
woman  of  faerie.     Do  you  remember  that  night? 

Do  you  remember  that  morning,  when  life  had 
grown  sadder,  when  we  walked,  again  by  the  sea, 
in  a  mighty  sunrise,  and  climbed  great  shoulders  of 
down,  and  stood  high  up  and  looked  across  the 
glittering  plains  of  water?  We  were  sad,  but.  as 
yet  we  had  not  lost  our  pearl.  Do  you  remember 
that  morning? 

And  now  I  can  see  the  face  of  Isabel  no  more  — 
for  my  tears. 

To  every  man  born  of  woman  must  have  come 
such  hours  of  lonely  retrospect,  when  the  evening 
sky  has  seemed  like  a  frieze  of  unforgotten  faces, 
and  his  aching  heart  has  gone  wandering  among 
lost  paradises.  With  what  immortal  treasure  have 
the  beauty  and  the  goodness  of  women  enriched 
our  memories  !  They  have  indeed  made  of  our 
lives  "  a  miracle  of  thirty  years  "  —  perhaps  a  mir- 
acle of  sixty!  And,  as  out  of  the  sweet-smelling 
treasure-chest  we  softly  take  the  gifts  of  wonder 
they  gave  us,  it  will  be  strange  if  a  sense  of  our 
own  failure  does  not  overcome  us,  of  failure  to  ap- 


Dear  Dead  Women  281 

preciate  our  fairy  fortune  till  it  was  too  late.  We 
were  so  young,  maybe,  and  so  eager  for  all  the 
beautiful  faces  that  we  took  all  too  heedlessly  the 
beautiful  face  that  was  our  own,  and  did  not  value 
at  its  worth  the  gift  that  is  seen  to  have  been  so 
infinitely  precious — now  that  it  has  been  taken 
back. 

"  One  asked  of  Regret, 

And  I  made  reply  : 
To  have  held  the  bird, 

And  let  it  fly  ; 
To  have  seen  the  star 

P'or  a  moment  nigh, 
And  lost  it 

Through  a  slothful  eye." 

Ah,  how  much  better  we  could  love  those  faces 
now,  how  much  finer  a  return  we  could  make  for 
all  that  faith-of-heart  we  paid  perhaps  so  cheaply 
in  base  coin,  the  mintage  of  vanity !  If  only  we 
could  be  granted  another  trial !  Life  has  been 
teaching  us  the  values  of  things!  If  only  we 
might  apply  our  new  wisdom  to  those  old  oppor- 
tunities of  happiness  so  eagerly  offered  to  us  !  If 
only  we  could  do  all  our  loving  over  again  !  And 
if  we  could,  would  there  not  be  more  love  and  — 
fewer  loves?  In  how  different  a  spirit,  with  what 
gratitude  and  humility,  would  we  accept  the 
wonderful  gift  of  woman !  O  how  true  we  would 
be,  how  carefully  we  would  tend  our  love  —  lest  it 


282  Painted  Shadows 

should  die;  how  we  would  honour  it  and  humour 
it,  and  engage  it  by  a  thousand  devices  —  lest  it 
should  fly  away !  And  with  what  attentive  happi- 
ness would  we  taste  and  dwell  upon  each  miracu- 
lous moment ! 

Ah,  yes !  we  see  it  all  so  clearly  now,  as  those 
beautiful  faces,  so  heavenly  kind,  shine  down  upon 
us,  "  enskied  and  sainted,"  from  the  lonely  night. 
How  good,  how  good  they  were  to  us  —  those 
beautiful  women  who  loved  us  once  and  love  us 
no  more  !  Surely  when  one  comes  to  die,  a  man's 
last  thought  will  be  one  of  thanksgiving  for  the 
goodness  of  women  to  him  all  his  days. 

Yes  !  the  goodness  of  women  !  We  talk  much 
of  their  beauty,  but  as  one  grows  older,  and  begins 
to  recover  from  one's  first  heady  draught  of  the  in- 
toxicant known  as  woman,  it  is,  I  think,  woman's 
goodness,  rather  than  her  beauty,  that  comes  to 
seem  her  one  astonishing  characteristic.  Her 
beauty,  indeed,  comes  to  take  its  place  as  merely 
one  of  the  component  elements  of  her  goodness ; 
and  we  grow  to  understand  why,  in  the  evolution 
of  humanity,  the  Madonna  has  supplanted  Aphro- 
dite in  the  temples  of  the  world.  Yes  !  the  home- 
liest Madonna  ever  painted  comes,  to  wear  a 
beauty  for  our  eyes  such  as  the  most  provocative 
Aphrodite,  in  all  the  superb  pomp  of  her  physical 
perfection,  can  wear  for  us  no  more. 


Dear  Dead  Women  283 

Woman  shares  her  beauty  with  the  whole  of 
nature.  She  is  but  one  small  fraction  of  the  beauty 
of  the  world,  and,  in  a  universe  which  from  planet 
to  animalcule  is  one  long  riot  of  beauty,  to  any 
eyes  but  those  of  a  lover's  illusion  she  is,  by  com- 
parison, but  indifferently  fair.  The  true  lovers  of 
beauty,  as  distinct  from  mere  lovers  of  women, 
know  many  a  lovelier  thing  than  woman. 

There  are  creatures  in  the  sea  made  out  of  rain- 
bows of  such  fairy  shape  that  by  their  side  the 
most  beautiful  woman  is  ungainly  as  a  hippopot- 
amus, and  the  earth  and  air  are  clothed  and  winged 
with  forms  more  exquisite  than  any  girl  that  was 
ever  made  out  of  dew  and  danger.  The  beauty 
of  some  animals  far  surpasses  the  beauty  of  any 
woman,  and  the  grace  of  the  most  graceful  woman 
is  clumsiness  compared  with  the  maddening  mobil- 
ity of  some  fishes.  What  eyes,  however  lustrous, 
can  hold  their  owai  with  certain  precious  stones,  or 
what  skin,  however  fine  its  texture,  dare  match 
itself  against  the  ivory  and  bloom  of  certain  flow- 
ers? Even  a  woman's  hair  is  coarse  compared  with 
the  swaying  filaments  of  certain  delicate  sea-weeds 
and  the  stems  of  silken  grasses. 

And  when  we  turn  from  nature  to  art,  woman's 
hopeless  inferiority  in  beauty  to  the  beautiful  work 
of  the  artist's  dreaming  hands  is  so  obvious  as  to 
need  no  illustration.     No  woman  was  ever  so  beau- 


284  Painted  Shadows 

tiful  as  the  Parthenon ;  no  woman  was  ever  so 
beautiful  as  a  Corot;  no  woman  was  ever  so 
beautiful  as  some  words. 

Woman's  beauty,  I  repeat,  but  represents  her 
small  share  in  the  common  stock  of  universal  love- 
liness. The  world  is  an  inexhaustibly  beautiful 
world.  Afterlife  itself  there  is  nothing  so  common 
as  beauty.  Beauty  is  the  lavish  by-product  of  the 
vital  process.  Without  apparently  giving  beauty 
a  thought,  nature  is  heedlessly,  wantonly  beautiful ; 
and  she  produces  beautiful  women  as  carelessly  as 
she  produces  some  exquisite  weed,  or  litters  the 
bottom  of  the  sea  with  mother-of-pearl. 

But  woman's  goodness  —  it  is  by  virtue  of  that 
that  she  is  unique  in  the  creation.  It  is  her  good- 
ness, not  her  beauty,  that  throws  over  her  that  hal- 
lowing light  of  the  divine,  and  makes  her  something 
more  than  mortal  in  very  deed ;  so  that  her  deifi- 
cation by  the  Christian  Church  is  less  a  symbolic 
transfiguration  than  a  recognition  of  her  actual 
every-day  nature  here  and  now  upon  the  earth. 
The  three  attributes  most  god-like  of  all  the  at- 
tributes of  gods  are  —  Pity,  Forgiveness,  Consola- 
tion ;  and  these  are  the  attributes  which  make 
woman  — •  Woman. 

From  first  to  last  how  much  every  man  owes 
to  woman  for  pity,  forgiveness,  and  consolation ; 
though  it  is  not  till  he  has  lived  awhile,  and  suf- 


Dear  Dead  Women  285 

fered  and  made  suffer,  that  his  indebtedness  be- 
comes by  slow  degrees  revealed  to  him.  Ah  !  as 
he  looks  back — how  much  has  he  been  forgiven, 
from  those  early  heedless  days  when  he  took  the 
love  of  his  mother  as  carelessly  as  his  breath,  and 
wounded  her  heart  without  dreaming  of  it,  heaven 
knows  how  often  —  on  and  on,  love  after  love  idly 
accepted,  maybe,  as  so  much  tribute,  and  tossed 
aside  with  scarce  a  thought  of  all  that  wasted  treas- 
ure and  all  the  pain !  Mother,  Wife,  Nurse,  and 
Saviour:  from  first  to  last,  it  was  Woman  that 
made  us,  and  not  we  ourselves ;  and  always  to  the 
end  of  our  lives,  as  a  child  runs  to  its  mother  in  its 
distress,  so  man  goes  to  woman  for  his  solace, 
and  so  the  whole  world  of  mankind  brings  its 
weariness  and  its  tears  to  the  feet  of  Our  Lady 
of  Consolation. 

Yes,  one  can  bear  to  think  of  the  beauty  of 
women,  but  the  thought  of  the  goodness  of  — 
some  —  women  breaks  one's  heart. 


THE    HOUSEHOLD    GODS 


THE   HOUSEHOLD   GODS 

MRS.  VEDA  HAMILTON  sat  on  the 
balcony  of  her  beautiful  country  house 
on  the  Hudson  and  watched  the  sunset. 
She  was  alone  to-night,  and  glad  to  be  alone. 
Her  husband  was  away  in  Washington  on  political 
business  —  Joseph  Hamilton,  one  of  the  strongest 
men  and  noblest  natures  in  American  politics. 
Dinner  was  over,  and  her  two  children,  a  boy  of 
seventeen  and  a  girl  of  fifteen,  had  eagerly  begged 
to  be  excused  that  they  might  watch  the  carpenters 
erecting  the  stage  in  the  great  hall  for  their  am- 
ateur theatricals  next  week. 

The  sound  of  hammers  and  young  voices  came 
to  Mrs.  Hamilton,  as  she  sat  and  watched  the  mel- 
low purples  and  golds  of  the  sumptuously  dying 
day.  Every  stroke  of  the  hammer  and  every 
happy  young  laugh  smote  her  heart  hke  the  tolling 
of  a  bell. 

That  performance  her  children  were  so  passion- 
ately anticipating —  would  she  be  there  to  see  it? 
Would  it,  indeed,  ever  take  place? 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  a  woman  about  forty,  strik- 

19 


290  Painted  Shadows 

ingly  brunette.  Her  thick  black  hair,  her  rich  oHve 
skin,  and  her  majestic  black  eyes  —  "tropics  and 
tragedy  in  solution,"  a  wit  had  said — seemed 
magnificently  out  of  place,  somehow,  even  in  their 
luxurious  surroundings.  There  was  an  untamed, 
unsatisfied  romance  about  her.  And  yet  she  was 
a  very  happy  woman.  She  had  married  the  man 
of  her  choice  —  a  man  who  was  as  good  and  charm- 
ing a  husband  as  he  was  a  distinguished  politician 
—  and  he  was  a  true  companion.  All  she  had 
asked  of  life  had  been  given  her.  Her  home  was 
a  paradise  of  harmonies  and  satisfactions.  Her 
children  were  clever  and  beautiful.  She  did  all 
she  pleased.  Not  a  desire  was  unfulfilled,  not  an 
inchnation  unsatisfied.  Mrs.  Veda  Hamilton  was 
a  happy  married  woman  of  the  highest  order. 

In  some  such  terms  as  these  she  would  herself 
have  described  her  life  —  at  all  events,  a  year  ago ; 
but  a  year  ago  this  very  night  it  had  been  revealed 
to  her  that,  after  all,  something  was  lacking  in  her 
ordered,  happy  existence  that  had  hitherto  seemed 
so  complete  and  satisfying. 

Mogens  Neergaard,  the  great  Scandinavian 
violinist,  brought  her  the  news. 

They  had  met  at  a  musicale,  in  New  York,  and  as 
soon  as  they  had  spoken  to  each  other  she  knew 
what  that  something  was  —  knew,  with  a  heart  that 
shuddered  at  the    discovery  —  and    yet   strangely 


The  Household  Gods  291 

sang  —  that  her  life  could  never  seem  complete  — 
never  even  real  —  again. 

Her  life  had  contained  every  element  but  one  — 
that  element  of  wonder,  of  enchanted  exaltation, 
which  we  call  romance.  It  had  been  everything 
but  a  fairy  tale.  Yet  not  till  Mogens  Neergaard 
had  come  and  touched  her  with  his  magic  bow 
had  she  been  conscious  of  the  lack. 

It  was  less  the  famous  music  than  the  man  him- 
self. The  music  was  but  a  part  of  him,  like  his 
deep,  laughing  voice,  or  his  sea-king's  eyes ;  for 
Mogens  Neergaard  was  not  one  of  those  hunchbacks 
of  art  whose  divine  faculty  must  house  with  de- 
formity. He  was  more  like  those  old  troubadours 
who  could  fight  as  brilliantly  as  they  could  sing. 

"  Yea  !  one  who  wore  his  love  like  sword  on  thigh 
And  kept  not  all  his  valour  for  his  lute." 

His  tall,  athletic  figure  and  his  fine,  erect  head 
gave  assurance  of  a  man  who  was  as  strong  as  he 
was  fearless.  A  rapid,  irresistible  lover,  he  was  no 
effeminate  or  cowardly  amorist,  and  his  physical 
courage  had  been  attested  by  several  famous 
duels. 

When  he  and  Veda  Hamilton  had  met  in  that 
New  York  drawing-room,  their  introduction  was 
for  each  other  a  thrilling  recognition  —  a  divine 
meeting  again,  rather   than    a  first   acquaintance. 


292  Painted  Shadows 

One  of  those  mysterious  understandings  that  in- 
stantly unite  men  and  women  who  are  destined  to 
play  a  part  in  each  other's  history,  immediately 
sprang  up  between  them.  It  seemed  strange  that 
their  hostess  should  be  taking  the  trouble  to  intro- 
duce them.     They  knew  each  other  so  well. 

A  month  later  Veda  Hamilton  and  Neergaard 
were  sitting  on  the  very  balcony  where  she  was 
now  sitting,  for  Neergaard  had  come  almost  to 
make  his  home  there  for  a  while,  and  no  one  but 
himself  knew  that,  at  great  expense,  he  had  can- 
celled important  engagements  to  stay  there.  For 
an  artist  Neergaard  was  a  rich  man ;  so  he  could 
afford  to  love  like  a  millionaire. 

"  Fancy  Mrs.  Pottle  thinking  it  necessary  to 
introduce  us !  "  laughed  Neergaard,  suddenly,  after 
a  slight  pause  in  which  they  had  sat  watching  the 
sunset  on  Veda  Hamilton's  veranda.  "  I  remember 
so  perfectly  what  you  wore  that  day  ten  thousand 
years  ago  ...  or  was  it  earlier?  I  think  it  was. 
Indeed,  I  cannot  remember  a  time  when  we  did  n't 
know  each  other.     Can  you?" 

"  I  cannot,"  answered  Mrs.  Hamilton,  gaily.  "  I 
remember  perfectly  what  you  played  —  that  is,  if 
you  really  remember  what  I  wore." 

"  Is  it  a  challenge?" 

•'  Yes." 


The  Household  Gods  293 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  some  day." 

"  You're  a  brave  man." 

"  Yes,  I  know  —  but  why  ?  " 

"  To  think  you  could  describe  a  woman's  dress 
—  particularly  one  so  much  out  of  fashion." 

"  Men  make  women's  dresses.  Men  are  the  great 
artists  in  women's  dresses,  as  they  are  in  every 
other  form  of  art.  It  is  their  fancy  and  skill  that 
make  —  some  —  women  what  they  are." 

"They  may  make  our  dresses  —  some  men,  but 
no  true  man  can  describe  a  woman's  dress.  I  stick 
to  my  point." 

"  There  is  a  kind  of  man  who  can,"  said  Neer- 
gaard,  audaciously  smiling  an  unspoken  word. 

"  He  least  of  all." 

"  You  mean  —  " 

"  I  mean,  to  save  you  the  anguish  of  committing 
an  indiscretion,  that  love  is  particularly  blind  in 
this  matter. " 

"You  said  the  word  first,  remember,"  laughed 
Neergaard. 

"What  word?" 

"  Love." 

"  I  said  it  to  prevent  your  saying  it." 
"  I  will  never  say  it." 
"You  must  never  say  it." 

"No;  but  some  day  I  will  come  in  a  chariot  of 
fire  and  carry  you  away  where  no  eyes  but  mine 


294  Painted  Shadows 

shall  see  you,  where  I  shall  be  jealous  only  of  the 
sun  and  the  stars  —  not  forgetting  the  moon,"  added 
Neergaard,  with  one  of  those  aside  laughs  that 
made  no  woman  ever  quite  sure  of  him. 

"  I  am  not  a  Sabine,  remember,  but  an  American 
—  an  American  matron." 
,  "Well,  in  an  automobile,  then." 

"  I  think  I  should  prefer  a  naphtha  launch." 

"  You  would  .■*  All  right.  A  naphtha  launch  — 
with  a  chariot  of  fire  waiting  —  where  shall  I 
say.?" 

"  Where  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Anywhere  this  side  of  heaven." 

"  A  nice,  indefinite  rendezvous.  You  artists  are 
so  impractical." 

"  That  is  a  common  mistake  about  us,  which,  on 
the  whole,  we  prefer  to  encourage.  And  am  I 
nothing  more  to  you  than  an  artist?  Please  think 
of  me  as  a  man," 

"  Much  more." 

"  More  than  a  man  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  mean  a  god?"  asked  Neergaard, 
returning  to  his  irony, 

"  No  —  Mogens  Neergaard." 

"  Is  that  your  answer?  " 

"  Did  you  miss  it?  " 

"  I  did  n't.     How  could  I  ?  .  .  .  Truly  I  remem- 


The  Household  Gods  295 

ber  the  dress  you  wore  ten  thousand  years  ago," 
said  Neergaard,  presently. 

"  Tell  me." 

And  Neergaard  described  it. 

"  And  I  remember  the  piece  you  played." 

"Tell  me." 

"  Play  it  again." 

And  Neergaard  played  it. 

In  that  hour  there  began  a  communion  between 
Veda  Hamilton  and  Mogens  Neergaard  for  which, 
in  the  world's  coarse  dictionary,  there  is  no  name. 
Was  it  love?  Was  Neergaard  Mrs.  Hamilton's 
"lover"?  Surely  not,  as  the  world  understands 
those  words.  Veda  Hamilton  remained  no  less 
true  a  wife  and  mother  for  her  friendship  with 
Neergaard.  And  Neergaard,  without  a  suspicion  of 
treachery,  had  still  the  right  to  take  the  hand  of 
Joseph  Hamilton  and  look  frankly  into  his  eyes. 
Nothing  that  had  ever  been  Joseph  Hamilton's, 
or  could  be  his  for  ever,  had  been  violated  or 
even  jeopardised.  It  was  only  the  quality  in  his 
wife  which  had  never  been  and  could  never  be  his 
that  had  been  given  to  Neergaard.  It  was  no 
vulgar  thief  of  the  heart's  treasure  who  had  come 
to  mean  so  much  to  his  wife,  and  was  his  own 
dearest  friend.  Indeed,  something  had  been  given 
to  him  rather  than  taken  away  by  the  companion- 


296  Painted  Shadows 

ship  of  the  two ;  for  through  it  a  whole  unsunned 
garden  in  his  wife's  nature  broke  into  blossom. 

She  had  been  like  a  palace  the  most  wonderful 
rooms  of  which  none  till  now  had  cared  to  inhabit. 
Surely  there  was  no  wrong  in  Neergaard  dwelling 
in  those  disused  chambers  of  imagery.  Till  he 
came  to  the  palace  no  one  else  had  knocked  at 
those  unsuspected  doors.  And  how  wonderful  it 
was  to  have  someone  living  in  those  forgotten 
rooms ! 

No  doubt  the  world,  which  occasionally  caught 
glimpses  of  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Neergaard  together, 
had  its  own  crude  misinterpretations.  The  world 
knows  only  one  way  of  loving.  But,  indeed, 
Mogens  Neergaard  and  Veda  Hamilton  dwelt  in 
"  breathless  bowers  "  it  "  dreamed  not  of,"  and  it 
is  worth  pondering  how  so  good  and  beautiful  a 
thing  as  their  friendship  was  and  can  be  so  hope- 
lessly misconstrued  by  a  vulgar,  concupiscent 
world  —  a  world  whose  standards  of  love  are  the 
standards  of  the  divorce  court.  Neergaard,  it  must 
be  said,  in  explanation  of  such  gossip,  was  some- 
what famous  for  his  affairs  of  love  and  honour, 
Mrs.  Hamilton  might  well,  maybe,  figure  as  one 
more  moth  drawn  by  his  fatal  dazzle;  but  how 
positively  laughable  the  mistake  was !  The  two 
people  most  concerned  enjoyed  together  the  few 
echoes  of  such  talk  that  reached  them. 


The  Household  Gods  297 

"  Has  he  kissed  you  yet?  "  asked  an  old  woman 
friend  of  Mrs.  Hamilton,  worldly  to  her  finger-tips. 
She  was  a  woman  not  easily  frightened,  but  the 
blazing  silence  of  Mrs.  Hamilton's  reply  perceptibly 
shortened  her  call. 

"  The  fools  !  the  idiots  !  the  pigs  !  "  Neergaard 
stormed,  when  he  heard  the  story.  "  Kiss  you ! 
Heavens  !     Who  wants  to  kiss  you  ?  " 

Both  of  them  broke  into  laughter  at  his  vehe- 
mence. Certainly  it  was  not  the  customary  talk 
of  a  lover. 

"  Kiss  you !  "  he  went  on,  fuming  to  himself. 
"  What  a  word  !  Kiss  you  !  "  And  then  he  burst 
forth  into  one  of  his  torrents  of  breathless  rage. 
"  Why,  Veda,  when  I  want  to  kiss  you,  do  you  think 
I'll  do  it  behind  the  door?  No!  I'll  just  take 
you  and  set  you  high  up  on  yonder  star,  and  kiss 
you  in  front  of  all  the  universe.  O  these  little 
sneak  thieves  of  love  !  This  petty  larceny  of  the 
Seventh  Commandment !  Tell  me,  Veda  —  "  and 
he  stopped  short  in  his  fierce  walk  to  and  fro,  and 
took  her  sternly  by  the  wrists  —  "  tell  me,  Veda, 
in  all  our  hours  together,  have  I  ever  seemed  for  a 
moment  to  be  thinking,  to  have  it  in  me  to  be 
thinking,  of  their  miserable  little  love — their 
kisses,  their  caresses,  their  sickly  Httle  sugar-plums? 
Ugh !  The  fools,  the  idiots,  the  pigs,  the  school- 
girls !     0  but  I  '11  kiss  you  some  da}^"  he  turned 


298  Painted  Shadows 

ofif,  with  savage  inconsequence,  "  and  the  whole 
world  will  know  of  it,  but  they  won't  call  it  '  kiss- 
ing.' It  will  be  thunder  and  lightning  and  tempest 
and  rainbows  —  and  the  fools  will  look  up  in  terror, 
and  say,  '  It  thunders,'  or  '  It  lightens,'  knowing 
nothing  of  what  the  gods  are  really  doing.  Kiss 
you  !  Do  you  see  the  tip  of  the  young  moon  over 
there?  "  —  his  mood  returning  once  more  to  fancy 
and  laughter.  "  Well,  some  day  you  and  I  will  sit 
and  dangle  our  heels  up  there,  just  at  the  very 
end,  and  laugh  at  the  whole  stupid  world,  and  kiss 
—  yes!  kiss  if  we  care  about  it — just  as  often  as 
we  please." 

"  Little  child,"  said  Veda  Hamilton,  soothingly, 
stroking  his  fine,  strong  hands.  "  What  a  child  a 
great  big  man  really  is,  after  all !     What  a  child  !  " 

The  stars  were  coming  out  overhead,  fields  upon 
fields  of  marguerites. 

Neergaard  turned  gently  to  his  friend,  his  wild 
mood  subsiding. 

"  Little  mother,"  he  said  tenderly. 

How  good  indeed  Mogens  Neergaard  and  Veda 
Hamilton  had  been  and  were  for  each  other,  one 
could  hardly  expect  a  wicked  world  to  understand. 

Most  people  not  entirely  animal,  vegetable,  or 
mineral,  whatever  the  comfort  or  security  of  their 
lives,  are  haunted  by  an  ideal  —  one  might  almost 


The  Household  Gods  299 

call  it  an  ideal  of  excitement  —  that  no  worldly 
prosperity  can  appease  and  no  respectable  occu- 
pation lull.  There  is  some  music  of  joy  that  life 
has  never  yet  struck  out  of  them.  That  flowering  of 
existence  we  call  romance  has  never  come  to  them. 
Their  lives  have  been  brick-and-mortar.  They 
have  missed  the  moonshine.  Those  maeic  case- 
ments  of  which  Keats  tells  have  never  opened  for 
them.  Nothing  they  have  ever  done  has  had  the 
delight  for  them  of  something  they  ought  not  to 
do.  They  have  the  peace  and  the  pence,  but  the 
music  went  down  the  other  street.  Such  are  not 
always  consciously  disappointed.  Sometimes  there 
is  needed  someone  to  come  and  remind  them  of 
what  they  really  care  for,  and  what  —  if  they  are 
not  quick  —  they  will  surely  miss. 

Veda  Hamilton's  was  such  a  nature.  She  was 
like  a  musical  instrument  unconscious  of  itself. 
She  was  ignorant  of  her  own  music  till  Mogens 
Neergaard  came  and  with  the  mere  sound  of  his 
voice  set  all  the  keys  a-trembling.  Perhaps  he  had 
discovered  nothing  in  her  except  her  unused  capa- 
cities for  being  happy.  How  happy  he  made  her, 
and  by  what  simple  means  !  She  had  only  to  see 
him.  He  had  only  to  come  and  sit  by  her  and  say 
that  he  had  managed  to  catch  the  5.30  train.  He 
had  only  to  ask  her  husband  what  his  opinion  was  as 
to  the  chances  of  a  certain  measure.    He  had  only  to 


300  Painted  Shadows 

say :  "  It  is  rather  warm  to-night ;  may  I  open  this 
window?  "  or  "  Lloyd,  how  are  you  getting  on  with 
Dumas?"  to  fill  her  with  a  new  sense  of  wonder 
and  joy.  In  short,  he  had  only  to  exist  in  her 
presence  to  make  her  realise  what  music  upon 
music  of  happiness  had  lain  unawakened  in  her  all 
these  years. 

Till  she  had  met  him  she  had  never  dreamed 
how  one's  very  body  can  sing  for  joy  —  merely 
because  another  human  being  is  talking  politics 
to  your  husband  over  his  coffee.  True,  she  had 
always  been  very  happy  —  that  is,  very  comfortable 
and  contented  in  her  life.  The  difference  between 
her  life  as  it  had  been  and  as  it  was  now  was  just 
the  difference  between  affection  and  ecstasy.  Not 
till  Neergaard  came  had  she  known  transfiguration  ; 
and  till  our  lives  have  been  transfigured  we  do  not 
really  live  at  all. 

Neergaard  was  for  her  the  spiritual  vision  that 
she  had  found  nowhere  else  —  not  in  religion, 
not  in  her  home  life,  beautiful  and  dear  to  her  as 
it  was;  not  in  nature,  not  in  art;  only  in  Mogens 
Neergaard. 

And  for  him,  in  a  different  way,  she  was  the 
same  revelation.  The  career  of  an  artist  is  beset 
by  nothing  so  much  as  facile  love,  but  the  danger 
of  an  artist  meeting  the  one  stern,  true  love  is  that 
she  usually  breaks  his  heart. 


The  Household  Gods  301 

Mogens  Neergaard  had  seemed  to  know  love 
many  times.  He  had  been  a  notable  polytheist 
of  the  affections.  But  now,  as  he  looked  back,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  all  these  various  loves,  charm- 
ing and  beautiful  as  they  had  always  been,  had 
been  wrong  ways  of  loving,  meant  to  teach  him 
the  right  way  of  loving,  the  only  way  —  the  love 
of  one  man  for  one  woman,  and  of  one  woman  for 
one  man,  as  long  as  life  lasts.  His  polygamic 
training  had  seemed  to  reveal  to  him  the  divine 
beauty  of  monogamy.  And  thus,  for  that  very 
reason,  he  was  able  to  bring  to  the  woman  before 
whose  face  all  his  memories  perished  like  wax,  a 
love  pure  and  undefiled,  a  love  the  earth  of  which 
had  been  purged  away,  a  love  to  which  all  other 
loves  had  been  contributory  processes.  At  last, 
free  of  its  earth  and  its  roots  and  its  stem  and 
its  rough  sheath  —  at  last  love  was  for  him  all 
flower. 

So  it  was  for  these  two  people  for  many  months, 
but  at  length  there  came  to  them  the  day  that  will 
always  come — the  day  when  they  said  to  each 
other :  "  It  is  not  enough.  These  few  hours  are 
not  enough.  Better  none  at  all  than  these  mar- 
gins and  remnants  of  another's  days.  All  the 
days  are  rightly  ours  —  ours  by  right  of  our  love. 
We  cannot  live  any  longer  apart  from  each  other." 


302  Painted  Shadows 

It  was  a  summer  afternoon,  and  they  stood 
together  knee-deep  in  a  field  of  marguerites, 
secluded  within  the  vast  seclusion  of  a  June  sky. 

"I  cannot  live  without  you,"  said  Neergaard,  as 
they  stood  looking  into  each  other's  eyes  as  in  a 
trance. 

"  I  cannot  live  without  you,"  Veda  Hamilton 
answered,  the  words  falling  from  her  lips  without 
her  knowledge. 

Then,  all  in  a  dream,  they  were  in  each  other's 
arms,  and  they  kissed  each  other  for  the  first  and 
only  time. 

After  the  manner  of  lovers,  they  gathered  each 
a  marguerite  and  walked  slowly  from  the  meadow 
with  happy,  sacred  eyes. 

There,  in  a  moment  of  exaltation,  to  which  the 
high  heaven  was  accomplice,  they  had  made  that 
solemn  gift  to  each  other  which  may  not  be  taken 
back.  For  a  brief  moment  they  had  lived  in  their 
own  world,  without  thought  of  any  other.  They 
returned  to  that  other  as  they  stepped  out  on  to 
the  dusty  highroad — the  beaten  track  of  daily 
life.  Then  they  began  to  reason,  after  the  manner 
of  this  world.  In  the  meadows,  among  the  mar- 
guerites, there  had  seemed  no  need  of  reason. 
On  the  highroad  it  was  different. 

And  this  reasoning  was  much  like  the  reasoning 
of  all  lovers  under  like  conditions. 


The  Household  Gods  303 

*'  After  all,  it  will  be  best,"  Neergaard  was 
saying,  "best  in  the  end  for  him,  too"  —  though 
he  did  not  explain  his  second  remark ;  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton  made  no  reply,  walking  at  his  side, 
thinking  and  thinking. 

"  Surely  the  happiness  of  two  is  worth  more  than 
the  happiness  of  one,"  he  continued  presently. 

"  O  but  the  pain —  his  pain,"  she  moaned. 

"  What  of  our  pain  —  your  pain  —  my  pain  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  —  I  know  —  " 

"Has  our  happiness  no  rights  too?  " 

"  Don't  talk,  Mogens.  I  am  yours.  It  is  ter- 
rible —  terrible  —  but  I  am  yours  —  now  —  always 
—  when  you  will." 

"  Are  you  frightened  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Would  you  go  back?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  love  you." 

"  I  love  you." 

So  at  length  there  had  come  for  Veda  Hamilton 
and  Mogens  Neergaard  love's  inevitable  hour, 
when  they  must  either  part  for  ever  or  meet  for 
ever.  They  had  promised  to  meet  for  ever.  The 
greater  marriage,  they  said  to  each  other,  had 
annulled  the  lesser  marriage.  They  discussed 
many  plans,     Neergaard  was  for  going  to  Hamil- 


3^4 


Painted  Shadows 


ton  with  the  simple  truth.  It  was  a  man's  way. 
Surely  it  had  been  the  best  way  —  the  only  way. 
But  the  woman  shrank  from  it.  There  is  always 
a  coward  somewhere  in  the  bravest,  and  Veda 
Hamilton's  cowardice  was  her  dread  of  seeing 
another's  pain.  She  could  not  face  the  thought 
of  seeing  her  husband's  anguish,  seeing  his  life  go 
down,  like  a  shot  man,  before  Neergaard's  story. 

If  Neergaard  really  wanted  her  he  must  steal 
her  —  literally  carry  her  away  by  main  force  in 
that  chariot  of  fire  of  which  he  had  long  ago 
laughingly  spoken.  She  would  not  resist.  It  was 
not  Neergaard's  way,  and  the  man  in  him  shrank 
from  a  course  so  like  that  of  the  common  house- 
hold thief  Yet  it  was  the  only  way.  He  must 
either  lose  the  woman  he  loved  for  ever  or  be  held 
for  what  he  was  not.  After  all,  when  he  and  she 
were  once  together,  what  would  the  understanding 
of  a  world  that  necessarily  misunderstood  most 
things  mean  to  them? 

The  world  cannot  take  away  anything  from 
those  for  whom  its  gifts  are  of  no  value.  To  lose 
the  good  report  of  the  world — and  win  Veda 
Hamilton !  That  was  the  proposition.  Could 
there  be  more  than  one  decision  to  that !  The 
grounds  of  Mrs.  Hamilton's  home  sloped  through 
gardens  and  orchards  and  a  brief  stretch  of  natural 
woodland   down   to   the  Hudson    itself,  where  in 


The  Household  Gods  305 

a  miniature  bay  was  a  hidden  pier.  At  midnight 
a  small  launch  would  push  its  way  through  the 
branches  and  moor  itself  there ;  and  Neergaard 
would  stride  up  through  the  woodlands  and  the 
orchards  and  the  gardens  to  carry  away  his 
bride. 

It  was  for  this  reason  that  Veda  Hamilton  sat 
on  the  balcony  watching  the  sunset,  and  wonder- 
ing if  this  was  really  her  last  night  in  her  home. 

So  she  sat  on  and  sat  on,  till  twilight  had  be- 
come moonlight.  Her  children  came  and  kissed 
her  good-night.  The  carpenters  had  gone  home. 
The  Hudson  shivered  into  silver  ripples.  The 
real  world  was  put  away  for  the  night.  The  unreal 
world  was  coming  on  duty.  The  shadows  were 
taking  their  places.  The  lights  had  already  come 
out  —  gold  dots  and  green  dots,  and  red  full  stops 
on  the  darkening  page  of  the  world.  Sounds  that 
had  no  meaning  in  the  sunshine  became  strangely 
significant.  Dogs  barked  differently.  Little  fly- 
ing things  that  had  waited  all  day,  afraid  lest  they 
should  be  seen,  whizzed  and  squeaked,  and  were 
variously  happy  at  their  ease.  The  great  silence 
yawned  itself  awake,  with  deep  breathing,  distant 
sounds. 

It  was  the  hour  when  the  chair  you   sit  on  is 

all  that  is  left  of  the  solid  earth  —  as  if  the  tide 

20 


306  Painted  Shadows 

of  oblivion  had  suddenly  come  up  and  washed 
the  daylight  world  away,  and  left  you  there  alone 
on  your  little  rock  of  silence  in  the  star-whispering 
night. 

"  O  God  !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Hamilton. 

"Which  god?"  said  a  little  voice  out  of  the 
darkness.  *'  Please,  ma'am,"  it  went  on,  "  I  am 
only  one  of  the  humblest  of  the  gods — one  of 
the  pantry-gods,  so  to  say ;  learned  people  called 
us  the  Penates.  I  am  the  god  that  helps  to 
cook  the  supper  that  Mr.  Hamilton  so  enjoys 
when  he  comes  home  late  from  a  long  day." 

"  And  I,  please,  ma'am,"  said  another  voice  out 
of  the  shadow,  "  am  Domiduca,  the  god  that 
watches  over  his  safe  coming  home." 

"Is  he  not  safe?"  asked  Mrs.  Hamilton,  in 
alarm. 

"  O  yes,  madam ;  he  has  just  left  Washington 
by  the  Congressional  Limited." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
voices,  but  the  dusk  had  grown  so  deep  that  she 
could  see  no  one.  Yet  none  the  less  she  was 
aware  that  the  door  behind  her  was  thronged 
with  appealing,  familiar  presences. 

Soon  another  voice  spoke,  quite  near  to  her. 

"  I  am  the  goddess  that  watches  over  the  fruit 
trees,"  it  said.  "  I  am  Pomona  of  the  Orchards. 
I  bring  the  apple  blossom  and  the   pear  blossom 


The  Household  Gods  307 

and  the  cherry  bloom.  I  guard  the  peaches  and 
the  nectarines  on  the  warm  wall,  and  I  scare  the 
birds  from  the  strawberry  beds." 

"  I  bring  the  snowdrops  and  the  ear'iy  violets," 
said  another  voice,  "  and  keep  the  grass  thick  and 
cool  through  the  hottest  days.  The  dew  and  the 
shadows  also  are  in  my  care." 

"  I  am  the  god  of  the  stables  and  the  barns," 
said  another  voice.  "  I  watch  over  the  mare  in 
foal,  and  make  sweet  the  milk  in  the  udder.  I 
dwell  in  cool  dairies  and  sweet-smeUing  granaries. 
I  am  the  genius  of  the  farm." 

"  I  am  the  guardian  of  the  linen  closets,"  said 
.another  voice.  "  I  scatter  lavender  among  the 
cool,  white  sheets,  and  destroy  the  moth  with  the 
pungent  odour  of  camphor." 

"  I  am  he  who  takes  care  of  the  pictures  and 
relics  of  those  you  have  loved,"  said  another  voice ; 
"  the  sacred  things  that  but  for  me  would  gather 
dust  in  unvisited  cupboards  and  unopened  drawers." 

"  I  am  she,"  said  another  voice,  "  who  guards 
for  you  the  first  baby  clothes,  the  first  tiny  socks 
and  slippers,  and  all  the  firstlings  of  motherhood." 

"  I  am  the  god  of  the  dogs  and  cats,"  said 
another  voice. 

"  And  I  watch  over  the  poultry  and  keep  the 
new-laid  eggs  from  the  rats  and  the  young  chick- 
ens from  the  hawk,"  said  another  voice. 


308  Painted  Shadows 

"  I  am  the  god,"  suddenly  broke  in  another 
voice,  stern  and  masterful,  "  that  guards  your 
husband's  honour." 

"  I  am  the  memory  of  your  father  and  mother," 
said  another. 

"I  am  the  future  of  your  children,"  said  another. 

And  while  they  were  all  speaking  —  these  and 
many  other  gods  of  the  home  —  the  clock  slowly 
struck  the  hour  of  twelve. 

Then  it  seemed  to  her  that,  without  her  own 
will,  she  had  risen  from  her  chair,  the  persuasion 
of  many  little  hands  upon  her  skirts  and  the  grip 
of  one  stern  hand  upon  her  wrist. 

"Come  indoors!  Come  indoors!"  voices  all 
around  her  seemed  to  be  calling.  "There  is  danger 
out  here.     Come  indoors." 

Then  she  found  herself  in  her  bedroom,  sitting 
near  the  window,  with  a  stunned  sense  of  loss  — 
loss  wide  as,  O  far  wider  than,  the  world. 

Presently  there  stole  to  her  ears  the  far  sound 
of  a  viohn.  It  was  Neergaard  playing  as  he  came 
up  through  the  gardens. 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  music  came,  till  at  last 
it  stopped,  as  in  angry  surprise,  beneath  her  win- 
dow. She  could  hear  Neergaard's  impatient  tread 
on  the  balcony.  She  heard  him  walk  to  the  door 
and  try  it.  But  the  stern  god  that  had  taken  her 
by  the  wrist  held  her  still  more  firmly. 


The  Household  Gods  3^9 

Then  suddenly  he  was  calling  her  once  more 
with  his  violin. 

At  first  the  strings  were  all  entreaty,  wistful  and 
tender;  but,  as  he  played  on,  they  grew  stormy 
with  passion  and  angry  with  reproach. 

He  no  longer  pleaded ;  he  demanded  her  in  the 
name  of  his  love. 

The  great  god  was  calling  her  outside,  but  the 
litde  gods  inside,  the  little  gods  of  the  home,  held 
her  fast. 

At  last  she  could  bear  it  no  more.  Stiffly  she 
rose  from  her  chair,  and  called  strangely  to  him 
through  the  window. 

"Good-bye,  Mogens,"  she  called;  "it  can- 
not be." 

Then  the  music  ceased. 

And  the  little  gods  laughed  low  and  nudged 
each  other,  and  pattered  back  to  their  cupboards 
through  the  silent  house. 

But  the  heart  of  the  great  god  was  broken. 


THE  TWO  GHOSTS 


THE  TWO  GHOSTS 

TWO  people  who  had  once  loved  —  or 
thought  they  loved  —  had  been  dead  and 
buried  for  three  years  —  that  is,  to  each 
other.  To  the  rest  of  the  world  they  seemed  vig- 
orously and  even  gaily  above  ground,  and,  at  all 
events,  had  retained  sufficient  life  in  them  to  get 
engaged  to  be  married  to  two  other  people.  The 
man,  it  should  be  explained,  was  already  engaged 
when  he  first  met  the  woman,  and  had  never,  dur- 
ing the  whole  course  of  his  relations  with  her,  the 
smallest  intention  of  breaking  his  engagement. 
But  the  woman  did  not  know  that — and  there  is, 
of  course,  no  possible  justification  for  his  wicked, 
Don-Juan-like  attitude,  except  that,  as  boys  will  be 
boys,  men  will  be  men. 

Now  it  chanced  one  spring  afternoon,  when 
these  three  years  had  gone  by,  that  the  ghosts  of 
these  two  lovers  met  in  a  New  York  drawing-room, 
and  were  both  very  much  disturbed  at  the  sight  of 
each  other.  Nothing  upsets  a  ghost  so  much  as 
the  apparition  of  another  ghost.  Though  they 
were  both  clever  ghosts,  they  were  unable  to  con- 


314  Painted  Shadows 

ceal  from  each  other  their  excitement  at  meeting, 
and,  indeed,  less  able  to  conceal  it  from  the  eyes 
of  the  lookers  on,  who,  knowing  something  of 
their  story  when  they  had  been  alive,  were  hardly 
less  excited  than  themselves. 

"The  two  ghosts  have  met,"  went  a  whisper 
round  the  room ;   "  what  is  going  to  happen !  " 

Meanwhile,  the  two  ghosts  were  looking  at  each 
other  without  saying  a  word.  Presently  "  Is  it 
you?  "  "  Is  it  you?  "  they  said  together,  and  each 
answered,  "  It  is  I." 

"  Let  us  draw  away  from  the  others,  and  look  at 
each  other,"  said  the  two  ghosts,  and  they  found  a 
corner  apart  from  the  inquisitive  eyes,  and  looked 
and  looked  at  each  other,  and  never  said  a  word ; 
till  at  last  the  time  came  when  the  woman-ghost 
must  go  and  meet  the  man  to  whom  she  was  en- 
gaged up  there  in  the  real  world,  and  with  whom 
she  dined  every  evening  —  as,  it  is  well  known,  is 
the  custom  of  all  engaged  couples  ! 

"  This  cannot  be  our  last  meeting,"  said  the  two 
ghosts,  "  there  is  so  much  to  say." 

"  I  will  meet  you  in  the  same  dear  spot  at  three 
to-morrow,"  said  the  woman-ghost,  and  thereupon 
she  vanished  ;   and  the  man-ghost  smiled. 

The  same  dear  spot  was  a  certain  cafe  full  of 
quiet  corners,  where  in  the  days  when  they  were 
alive  the  two  ghosts  had  been  wont  to  drink  through 


The  Two  Ghosts  3 1 5 

straws  to  the  eternity  of  their  love  for  each 
other. 

Remembering  each  other's  habits,  both  ghosts 
were  late,  the  man  half  an  hour,  the  woman  forty 
minutes. 

"What  shall  we  drink?  "  said  the  man-ghost. 

"  You  know,"  answered  the  woman-ghost. 

The  waiter,  who  was  an  old  friend,  was  quite  star- 
tled to  see  them, 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  dead  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"We  have  been,"  said  the  woman-ghost,  look- 
ing fondly  at  the  man-ghost,  and  surreptitiously 
pressing  his  hand. 

The  waiter  did  n't,  of  course,  understand  ;  so,  to 
relieve  his  embarrassment,  —  with  that  extraordi- 
nary memory  for  the  tastes  of  their  customers  which 
good  waiters  possess  ;  "  Shall  I  bring  you  the  same 
as  in  the  old  days?"  he  asked  with  a  fatherly 
smile  on  their  re-arisen  happiness. 

"  Do  you  really  remember?"  asked  the  woman- 
ghost. 

"You  shall  see,  miss,"  answered  the  waiter,  and 
presently  returned  with  the  same  sacramental  drink 
he  had  made  for  them  so  often  three  years  ago. 

"  Fancy  your  remembering —  how  dear  of  you, 
John  !  "  said  the  woman-ghost.  "  Why,  I  believe, 
he  is  quite  happy  to  see  us  again,"  she  added,  when 
he  had  left  them  alone. 


316  Painted  Shadows 

"  The  whole  world  is  happy  with  us,"  said  the 
man-ghost,  "  the  very  cars  outside  seem  to  be  sing- 
ing a  happy  song.  And  they  have  sounded  so 
lonely  for  ever  so  long  —  such  a  sad  lost  moaning 
they"  made.     Do   you    remember  our  old  spring 

song: 

"  O  the  gay  gay  people 

Out  in  the  sun,  in  the  sun, 
For  to-day  the  winter  is  ended, 
To-day  the  spring  is  begun  ; 
And  the  open  cars  are  running, 

And  the  brooks  are  running  too. 
And  there  's  a  bird,  dear,  singing, 
Singing  —  all  of  you." 

"  I  love  you,"  said  the  woman-ghost,  laying  her 
hand  on  his. 

"  How  dear  of  you  to  say  it  first  again  — as  you 
did  long  ago,"  laughed  the  man-ghost,  perhaps  a 
little  ambiguously. 

Then  they  took  up  their  straws. 

"  Whom  are  we  to  drink  to?  "  asked  the  man- 
ghost. 

"  Us!''  answered  the  woman-ghost. 

"  Us!''  said  the  man-ghost. 

And  then,  with  their  eyes  upon  each  other,  they 
drank  through  the  straws. 

They  had  a  very  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other, 
many  things  out  of  the  past  to  explain,  many  old 
misunderstandings  to  discuss.     They  had,  despite 


The  Two  Ghosts  317 

their  great  love,  lied  no  little  to  each  other  in  the 
old  days  —  the  man,  perforce,  because,  as  I  have 
said,  he  loved  another  woman  too,  and  loved  her 
most ;  the  woman,  for  no  particular  reason  ex- 
cept that  she  was  intriguante  by  nature,  and 
could  n't  help  it.  Each  had  found  the  other  out  — 
the  man  the  woman's  little  mean  lies,  the  woman 
the  man's  great  big  lies.  And  so  they  had  become 
ghosts  to  each  other.  Yet  they  had  both  cared 
a  great  deal,  both  had  suffered,  and  both  were 
happy  to  forget  each  other's  faults  for  the  pur- 
pose of  spending  a  few  hours  together  in  a  fool's- 
paradise. 

"  Ah  !  but  I  have  changed  so  much  since  then  !  " 
said  the  woman-ghost.  "  The  little  lies  have  fallen 
from  me.  I  see  now  how  right  you  were  about  me. 
If  only  I  had  known  then  —  but  I  was  little  more 
than  a  child  ..." 

"  Yes !  "  said  the  man-ghost  wickedly  in  his 
own  heart,  "it  is  true  —  you  were  but  twenty- 
eight  ..." 

This  was,  no  doubt,  a  little  mean  of  the  man- 
ghost  —  but  then  if  only  the  reader  could  know  all, 
he  would  understand. 

"  You  have  changed  too,"  said  the  woman-ghost, 
presently;  "your  mouth  is  kinder;  you  too,  I  can 
see,  have  grown  truer,  more  sincere  ..." 

The  man-ghost  did  his  best  to  look  Hke  a  re- 


3i8  Painted  Shadows 

formed  character,  and  pressed  her  hand  impres- 
sively. He  said  nothing,  but  his  whole  attitude 
was  designed  to  convey  that,  indeed,  life  had  at 
last  purged  the  dross  out  of  him  and  taught  him 
the  long  lesson  of  the  One  Woman.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  it  had,  but  it  was  by  means  of  another 
woman  that  he  had  learnt  it,  the  woman  whom  he 
had  always  loved  —  but  deceived  awhile.  He  was 
not  deceiving  her  now,  for  he  had  told  her  of  his 
having  met  the  ghost,  and  the  likelihood  of  his 
meeting  her  again.  She  was  so  secure  in  his  love 
that  she  smiled  at  his  vagaries  and  left  him  to  go 
his  way.  Wise  women  are  not  wastefully  jealous. 
They  keep  their  jealousy  for  really  important 
occasions. 

Both  ghosts  were  very  delicate  to  avoid  mention 
of  the  status  quo,  though  by  every  indirect  method 
of  which  their  subtle  brains  were  capable  they 
sought  to  read  each  other's  minds  on  the  subject  — 
with  but  little  result.  The  woman-ghost,  however, 
was  intuitively  aware  of  a  certain  stubborn  loyalty 
to  the  other  woman  in  the  man-ghost's  carefully 
chosen  words  and  nimble  evasions. 

Thus  in  retrospective  readjustments,  stealthy  re- 
connaissances of  each  other,  and  withal  real  joy  in 
each  other's  recovered  presence,  the  afternoon  went 
by,  and  presently  once  more  the  time  approached 
for  the  woman-ghost  to  dine  in  the  real  world. 


The  Two  Ghosts  319 

"  We  cannot  part  like  this,"  said  the  two  ghosts, 
"  there  is  so  much  still  to  say."  So  it  was  agreed 
that  they  should  meet  again  on  the  morrow  at  the 
same  place,  at  the  same  hour. 

"  You  had  better  not  come  out  with  me,"  said 
the  woman-ghost  at  parting,  for  ghosts  have  a  great 
objection  to  being  seen  together;  so  the  man-ghost 
remained  behind,  and  watched  her  figure  through 
the  window,  and  wondered  if  he  could  ever  really 
love  her  again  as  he  used  to  do. 

Next  day  the  two  ghosts  were  comparatively 
punctual  at  the  rendezvous.  The  woman-ghost  was 
twenty  minutes  late,  and  the  man-ghost  twenty- 
five.  Again  they  drank  to  "  Us "  through  the 
sacramental  straws,  again  their  friend  the  waiter 
beamed  upon  their  resurrection,  again  they  talked 
of  the  past  and  tried  in  vain  to  wrest  from  each 
other  the  secret  of  the  present,  and  again  they 
were  very  happy,  and  again  when  the  time  came 
round  for  the  engaged  couple  to  dine  together, 
nothing  seemed  to  have  been  said. 

So  once  more  it  was  "  To-morrow  —  at  three  "  — 
and  the  man-ghost  watched  the  woman-ghost 
through  the  window,  and  wondered.  But  he  ad- 
mired her  frock. 

Thus  many  days  went  by,  and  the  two  ghosts 
continued  meeting  each  other  according  to  their 
notions  of  three  o'clock ;  and  so  much  a  custom  had 


320  Painted  Shadows 

their  meetings  become  that  they  had  almost  for- 
gotten that  they  were  ghosts  at  all;  and,  certainly^ 
any  one  seeing  them  together,  seeing  their  close 
colloquies,  and  the  way  their  eyes  hung  upon  each 
other,  would  have  had  considerable  difficulty  in  dis- 
tinguishing them  from  real  lovers.  Each  day  the 
living  blood  seemed  to  be  pouring  into  their 
shrunken  veins,  each  day  they  grew  less  and  less 
like  phantoms. 

There  is  no  real  ghost,  I  need  hardly  say,  that 
does  not  own  and  haunt  some  buried  treasure. 
Now  both  these  ghosts  possessed  their  buried 
treasure  —  treasure  which  three  years  ago  they  had 
professed  to  destroy.  One  day  they  had  dared  to 
ask  each  other  concerning  it. 

"  You  did  not  really  burn  them  ?  "  said  the  man- 
ghost. 

"  No,  I  could  not  bear  to,  and  never  meant  to. 
Did  you?" 

And  the  man-ghost  said  the  same  as  the  woman- 
ghost.  And  both  told  the  truth,  for  in  their  way 
they  had  loved  each  other. 

"  O  come  and  see  my  buried  treasure,"  said  the 
woman-ghost,  as  the  time  came  for  parting. 

"  But  .  .  ."  the  eyes  of  the  man-ghost  queried. 
"  What  of  the  dinner  hour  in  the  real  world  !  " 

As  it  chanced,  the  woman-ghost  was  free  for  this 
night;  and  as,  day  by  day,  the  woman-ghost  had 


The  Two  Ghosts  321 

been  growing  more  and  more  daring,  they  drove 
in  a  cab  together,  the  two  ghosts,  to  the  place  of 
the  buried  treasure  —  trusting  perhaps  also  to  the 
alleged  invisibility  of  ghosts. 

To  drive  in  a  cab  again  together  was  for  them  a 
separate  bliss  —  poor  disembodied  spirits  ;  and  then 
at  length  they  found  themselves  at  the  entrance  of 
the  apartment  house  at  which  in  his  carnal  life  the 
man-ghost  had  been  so  accustomed  a  presence. 
It  was  but  natural  that  he  should  re-enter  these 
once  familiar  doors  with  a  thrill  of  memory. 
How  strange  it  was  to  be  there  again,  to  find 
everything  the  same,  the  same  clerks  at  the  desk,  as 
she  went  there  to  inquire  for  her  mail.  ,  .  Yes ! 
it  was  strange,  and  almost  creepy,  even  for  a  ghost. 
When  they  came  to  the  elevator,  there  was  the 
same  good  boy  David  running  it,  who  had  been  so 
kind  —  in  exchange  for  dollar  bills  —  in  the  old 
time.  The  good  David  almost  fainted  at  the  sight 
of  the  man-ghost. 

"  Why !     I  thought,    sir  .  .  ."    he    began,    and 
stopped  in  time. 

When    they   were    out     of   the     elevator,    the 

woman-ghost  explained  that,  David  having  so  often 

inquired  after  the  gentleman  that  came  no  more, 

she   had  calmly  told  him  that  the  gentleman  was 

dead.     Hence  David's  natural  surprise  ! 

"  It  was  true,  was  n't  it?  "  she  added. 

■  21 


322  Painted  Shadows 

"  Ye-es,"  answered  the  man-ghost,  with  an  in- 
ward reflection  on  that  old  habit  of  unveracity. 

Then  they  entered  the  rooms  he  had  once  loved 
so  well,  —  entered  them  by  the  same  door,  —  the 
rooms  that  had  once  seemed  like  the  shrine  of  some 
pure  spirit,  the  dwelling-place  of  a  fairy  woman. 
The  same  rooms,  the  same  furniture ;  a  few  more 
books,  a  few  more  photographs,  the  desk  three 
years  untidier  —  that  was  the  only  difference. 

When  they  had  closed  the  door,  they  stood  a 
moment  side  by  side  looking  at  the  place  where 
they  had  both  seemed  so  magically  alive.  Then 
they  fell  into  each  other's  arms,  and  kissed  each 
other,  and  kissed  each  other  again  and  again,  and 
although  they  were  ghosts,  and  engaged  ghosts  too, 
the  kisses  seemed  wonderfully  real,  and  anyone 
who  could  have  seen  them  might  well  have  wished 
to  be  a  ghost  —  so  happy  they  seemed  revisiting 
thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon  in  each  other's 
company. 

Neither  of  them  could  believe  that  they  were 
there  —  together ;  yet  in  a  moment  the  three  years 
seemed  to  have  vanished  for  both  of  them  — 
though  deep  in  their  hearts  they  knew  they  were 
only  ghosts.  Still  the  sensation  was  very  sweet  of 
seeming  to  be  really  alive  again  together,  and  who 
shall  blame  them  if  they  gave  themselves  up  to  it? 

After  a  while  the  woman-ghost  said :   "  Come, 


The  Two  Ghosts  323 

let  us  look  at  our  buried  treasure,"  and  she  turned 
to  a  little  urn-shaped  box  of  seventeenth-century 
workmanship,  made  of  wood  covered  with  decora- 
tive shapes  of  beaten  copper,  and  a  fantastic  lock 
of  iron  big  enough  to  belong  to  the  gate  of  a 
castle. 

"  I  have  two  keys  to  this,"  she  said  ;  "  here  is  one 
of  them.  Take  it,  and  open  the  box  for  us,  and 
then  keep  the  key  for  ever.  Here  is  my  own  key. 
No  one  so  long  as  I  live  shall  look  inside  this  box 
but  you  and  I.  It  belongs  to  us.  It  is  our  year. 
No  future  has  any  right  over  it  .  .  ." 

Then  they  placed  the  box  between  them  on  a 
divan,  and  the  man-ghost  set  the  key  to  the  lock, 
and  raised  the  lid,  and  the  two  looked  in  as  into  a 
grave  —  a  grave  filled  with  rose-leaves  ;  and  as  the 
man  looked,  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he 
took  the  woman's  face  in  his  hands  and  kissed  her 
very  gently,  and  then  they  fell  into  each  other's 
arms  over  the  little  grave  and  cried  bitterly. 

And  anyone  looking  on  would  have  said  that 
this  was  the  real  sorrow  of  real  people.  But 
neither  forgot  in  their  hearts  that  they  were  ghosts. 

When  they  had  recovered  themselves  and  were 
drying  their  eyes  and  trying  to  laugh  away  their 
foolishness,  the  man  said : 

"  You  make  me  believe  that  you  did  really  love 
me,  after  all  .  .  .  " 


324  Painted  Shadows 

"  I  loved  you  all  the  time,"  she  answered, "  it  was 
you  that  failed." 

Then  she  took  up  a  folded  paper  from  one  of 
the  little  trays.  It  made  a  withered  sound  when 
she  opened  it. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  goldenrod  along  the 
road  —  that  morning?     Here  is  a  piece  of  it." 

And  again  she  took  a  folded  paper  and  opened 
it. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  she  said,  "  that  old  desk 
you  used  to  write  on?  Once  when  you  were 
not  looking  I  took  a  penknife  and  cut  away  a 
splinter  of  it.     Here  it  is." 

Can  you  wonder  that  the  man-ghost  felt  his 
heart  fill  with  tears? 

"Did  you  really  love  me  so  much  as  that?" 
he  said.  "  How  grateful  you  make  me  —  how 
happy ! " 

And  then,  one  by  one,  the  woman-ghost  showed 
him  the  hoarded  treasures  of  her  heart.  It  was  all 
too  sacred  to  tell  about;  but  there  was  nothing 
that  bore  the  stamp  of  a  moment's  memory,  how- 
ever slight,  that  the  woman  had  not  saved,  trifles 
inconceivably  trivial,  as  well  as  little  memorials 
heart-breakingly  intimate. 

The  man-ghost  almost  forgot  the  personal  re- 
lation of  it  all  to  himself  in  his  reverence  at  this 
revelation  of  a  woman's  heart. 


The  Two  Ghosts  325 

"  To  think,"  he  kept  saying  over  and  over  — 
"  to  think  that  you  loved  me  Hke  that  —  and  I 
never  knew.  How  can  I  ever  be  grateful  enough 
for  this  wonderful  love  that  you  gave  me  ?  " 

So  for  a  long  while  the  two  ghosts  hung  over 
their  buried  treasure,  and  at  length  placed  each 
little  memory  back  in  its  place,  and  locked  the 
urn-shaped  box,  and  with  a  sigh  the  man  placed 
his  key  in  his  pocket,  and  the  woman  slipped  hers 
into  her  bosom  —  and  by  this  the  clocks  were 
striking  eleven. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  the  man,  rising,  but  he  lingered 
still  a  moment  while  the  woman  held  him  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  him  passionately.  When  they 
came  out  of  their  kiss,  breathless  and  laughing,  the 
woman-ghost  said : 

"  I  am  afraid  this  hardly  looks  as  though  we 
ivere  ghosts." 

Yet  for  all  that  both  knew  that  they  were 
ghosts. 

As  the  man-ghost  walked  home  with  a  curious 
gravity  in  his  heart,  he  suddenly  thought  of  one 
incident  of  the  evening  the  significance  of  which 
had  not  struck  him  at  the  time.  While  they  were 
looking  over  those  memories  in  the  little  chest,  the 
woman-ghost  had  held  up  a  piece  of  paper  on 
which  was  written  some  verses. 

"  Do  you  remember  this?  "  she  asked. 


0  26  Painted  Shadows 

He  remembered  well.  "  But  where,"  he  added, 
"is  the  letter  that  came  with  it?  You  seem  to 
have  torn  it  off"  ;  and  he  pointed  to  the  top  of  the 
paper  which  had  evidently  been  cut  with  a  pair  of 
scissors. 

"  O  that  is  down  there  among  the  other  letters," 
she  answered.  "  I  wanted  to  have  the  poem  by 
itself" 

It  was  a  slight  incident,  and  at  the  moment  he 
had  given  it  no  thought;  but,  as  he  walked  home, 
his  memory  went  back  to  it,  and  suddenly  recalled 
what  the  letter  had  been  which  accompanied  the 
verses.  It  had  been  a  very  tender  letter,  memorial 
of  an  occasion  very  sacred  to  both  of  them,  but 
it  had  been  for  that  very  reason  the  kind  of  letter 
one  would  not  care  to  see  in  an  auction-room  or 
an  autograph-dealer's  catalogue.  Therefore  the 
woman-ghost  had  destroyed  it.  Perhaps  not  un- 
naturally, but  why  had  she  not  said  so  ?  Why  had 
she  said  it  was  there  with  the  other  letters? 

And  so  once  more  that  shadow  of  unveracity 
stole  over  the  man-ghost's  thoughts,  and  vitiated 
the  sincerity  of  that  afternoon. 

In  all  these  meetings  the  two  ghosts  still  felt  that 
they  had  more  to  say  to  each  other,  so  still  they 
continued  meeting,  and  still  each  evening  the 
woman-ghost  returned  to  dinner  in  the  real  world. 
And  so  the  beautiful  days  went  by. 


The  Two  Ghosts  327 

One  day,  as  they  sat  together  in  their  cafe,  the 
woman-ghost  said : 

"  Do  you  remember  what  day  Monday  will  be?  " 

"The  1 8th  of  April,"  answered  the  man-ghost, 
promptly.  So  much  indeed  the  waiter  could  have 
told  him ;  but  as  men-ghosts  have  exceedingly  bad 
memories  for  anniversaries  he  immediately  set  to 
work  trying  to  recall  the  significance  of  the  i8th 
of  April. 

**  Yes  !  but  you  remember  what  it  means  —  what 
it  once  meant?  " 

"  Do  you  really  think  I  could  possibly  forget?" 
answered  the  man-ghost,  with  a  certain  reverential 
reticence  of  manner,  as  though,  while  the  occasion 
was  perfectly  clear  in  his  mind,  it  was  one  almost 
too  sacred  to  recall  in  words.  By  such  dumb 
show  of  feeling  he  succeeded  in  convincing  the 
woman-ghost  that  the  date  was  indeed  green 
in  his  memory ;  the  more  so  as  she  herself  had 
her  own  reasons  for  not  putting  the  date  into 
words. 

"  Do  you  think  we  might  spend  the  day  in  the 
country,  as  we  did  three  years  ago?"  said  the 
woman-ghost.  "  It  would  be  doing  no  wrong  to 
—  anybody,  would  it?" 

"  Of  course,  it  would  n't.  Ghosts  cannot  harm 
the  living,"  said  the  man-ghost.  "  The  worst  they 
can  do  is  to  haunt  them.     Let  us  go." 


328  Painted  Shadows 

"  The  spring  is  early  this  year,"  said  the  woman- 
ghost.  "  One  feels  it  breathing  already  in  the 
town.  Even  here  the  buds  are  thickening  on  the 
trees ;  but  the  country  must  already  be  leaf  and 
blossom  and  birds." 

"  Let  us  go  and  teach  the  birds  to  sing,"  said  the 
man-ghost. 

"  We  might  even  teach  them  to  fly,"  said  the 
woman-ghost,  laughing  over  the  two  straws  daintily 
held  in  her  lips,  like  pipes  of  some  frail  forgotten 
music. 

"  O  winter  of  my  heart  —  when  comes  the  spring  ..." 

the  man-ghost  began  to  recite  in  a  low  voice,  half 
to  himself; 

"  I  am  sore  weary  of  these  death-like  days, 
This  shroud  unheaving  of  eternal  snow  — 
O  winter  of  my  heart  —  when  comes  the  spring  ?  " 

"  Whom  did  you  write  that  to?"  asked  the  woman- 
ghost,  jealously.     "  It  was  not  to  me  ..." 

"  No,  it  was  not  to  you,  dear  ghost,"  smiled  the 
man,  "  it  was  to  a  living  woman." 

"  Don't  think  of  the  living  to-day,"  said  the 
woman-ghost.  "  It  is  ungallant,  at  the  very 
least." 

"  You  are  right,"  answered  the  other.  "  It  was 
but  a  passing  thought,  and  it  is  passed.  Now, 
dear  ghost,  I  am  your  own  ghost  again  ..." 


The  Two  Ghosts  329 

"  I  wonder  if  you  really  love  me,"  asked  the 
woman-ghost. 

"  So  much  as  one  ghost  can  love  another  ghost," 
the  man-ghost  answered. 

And  then,  looking  at  the  clock,  they  saw  that  it 
was  already  the  hour  of  the  betrothed. 

"  Before  you  go,  tell  me  in  return  if  you  really 
love  me,"  asked  the  man-ghost. 

"  As  much  as  a  living  woman  can  love  a  ghost," 
she  answered,  half  sadly,  half  laughingly ;  and  her 
skirts  rustled  away  to  leave  the  man-ghost  ponder- 
ing on  the  enigmatic  reply.  Suppose  he  should 
cease  to  be  a  ghost !  Suppose  she  were  really  a 
living  woman ! 

He  watched  her  through  the  cafe  window  as  she 
caught  the  car.  One  thing  was  certain.  Her  new 
spring  hat  was  quite  pretty. 

On  the  morning  of  the  i8th  of  April  the  two 
ghosts  met  very  early  at  their  cafe,  and  after  first 
drinking  through  the  straws  very  solemnly  to  the 
anniversary  they  were  about  to  celebrate  —  but 
which,  shame  upon  him  !  the  man-ghost  had  in 
vain  tried  to  place  —  they  discussed  their  plans 
for  the  day.  ' 

"  Shall  we  go  —  there?"  said  the  woman-ghost 

The  word  "  there  "  only  deepened  the  mystery 
for  the  man-ghost,  but  he  was  able  to  say  an  ap- 
propriate thing. 


330  Painted  Shadows 

"Do  you  think  we  dare?"  he  asked.  "It  is 
always  such  a  terrible  risk,  revisiting  places  where 
one  has  been  so  happy." 

"Do  you  think  we  shall  run  any  risk  to-day?  " 
asked  the  woman-ghost,  looking  at  once  fondly 
and  searchingly  into  his  face. 

For  answer  the  man-ghost  looked  at  her  a  long, 
long  look,  and  presently  asked  the  waiter  to  order 
a  hansom  to  take  them  to  the  Grand  Central.  He 
could  remember  the  Grand  Central  —  but  what  on 
earth  was  the  name  of  the  other  station !  For, 
you  see,  they  had  been  so  often  in  the  country 
together,  so  often  that  New  York  State  made  a 
kind  of  Palestine,  sown  thick  for  them  with  holy 
places.  But  which  was  the  holy  place  connected 
with  April  i8th?  All  the  way  in  the  cab  the  man- 
ghost  was  cudgelling  his  brains  for  the  name  of  the 
place,  but  at  length  they  arrived  at  the  depot 
without  his  having  been  able  to  recall  it.  As  he 
handed  the  woman-ghost  out  of  the  hansom,  a  des- 
perate expedient  occurred  to  him. 

"  I  have  just  remembered  a  telegram  I  must  send," 
he  said.  "  Do  you  mind  getting  the  tickets  while  I 
send  it?"  and  he  pressed  some  money  into  her  hand. 

She  went  off  gaily,  poor  little  woman-ghost,  and 
the  man-ghost  felt  the  awful  wretch  that  he  was  — 
but  is  it  the  fault  of  man  that  he  was  not  born  with 
a  woman's  memory  for  anniversaries? 


The  Two  Ghosts  331 

Presently  they  met  again.  She  handed  him  the 
tickets,  and  how  eagerly  he  read  them  !  Now,  at 
all  events,  he  knew  the  name  of  the  station,  but  as 
they  had  been  there  together  at  least  six  times,  he 
was  still  at  a  loss  as  to  which  visit  they  were  about 
to  celebrate.  However,  that  was  a  mere  detail, 
now  that  he  knew  the  name  of  the  place ;  and  so 
they  started  off,  happy  as  birds  —  for  perhaps  the 
deepest  bond  between  them  had  always  been  their 
mutual  love  for  what  is  usually  called  "  nature,"  a 
love  peculiarly  their  own.  They  both  knew  others 
who  loved  "  nature,"  but  no  one  quite  as  they  loved 
it.  The  purest  hours  of  companionship  they  had 
ever  known  had  been  out  together  in  the  fields 
and  woods;  and  to  be  once  more  in  the  country 
together  with  the  perilous  intoxication  of  spring 
all  around  them,  the  vivid  fountains  of  green 
leaves,  piercingly  fresh,  the  balm  in  the  air,  and  O 
the  birds !  —  was  a  happiness  that  made  them  for- 
get awhile  that  they  were  only  ghosts.  So  might 
two  lost  spirits  escaped  awhile  from  Hades  into 
the  upper  air  scent  the  sweet  earth-smell  of  the 
mould,  fill  their  arms  with  fragrant  boughs,  and 
passionately  feed  their  eyes  on  the  good  sky. 

"  It  is  good  to  be  here,"  said  the  man ;  "  let  us 
build  two  tabernacles  !  " 

"  Two  !  "  laughed  the  woman-ghost. 

And,  as  by  this  they  were  in  the  ungossiping 


332  Painted  Shadows 

wilderness,  they  took  hands  and  ran  together  over 
the  rocky  meadows,  for  sheer  joy  in  being  there 
together  under  the  sky. 

At  last  they  found  the  very  meadows,  the  very 
rocks,  overshadowed  by  the  very  trees,  where  they 
had  been  so  happy  that  i8th  of  April.  A  stream 
had  been  running  close  by  three  years  before.  It 
was  running  still.  All  was  just  the  same.  And 
here  they  were  once  more,  to  complete  the  punc- 
tuality of  nature.  Only  one  object  was  missing 
from  the  landscape  —  a  poor  old  consumptive 
horse  that  had  neighed  mournfully  and  some- 
times startlingly  far  down  the  meadows,  on  the 
1 8th  of  April,  three  years  ago. 

It  was  the  woman-ghost's  recalling  this  old 
horse  that  suddenly  brought  back  to  the  man- 
ghost's  mind  the  whole  set  of  circumstances  which 
beforehand  he  had  been  in  vain  trying  to  piece 
together.  At  last  the  anniversary  was  clear  to 
him,  and  he  could  enter  into  its  memorial  rites 
without  the  sense  of  hypocrisy,  or  the  fear  of  some 
disastrous  blunder. 

And,  even  with  a  defective  memory  for  senti- 
ment, it  surely  had  been  strange  if  the  man-ghost 
had  not  responded  to  the  vernal  call  of  resurrection 
which  breathed  and  piped  and  fluted  and  rippled 
all  about  them.  The  whole  sunlit  world  was  rising 
from  the  dead  —  might  not  these  two  dead  ones 


The  Two  Ghosts  333 

arise  also,  and  once  again  be  happy  together  in 
the  sun?  All  too  soon  they  must  die  the  second 
death,  from  which  there  is  no  resurrection.  Surely 
this  day  in  the  sun  might  be  theirs,  the  last  day 
they  would  ever  spend  in  the  spring  sunshine  to- 
gether. Was  it  so  very  much  to  ask  —  so  very 
much  to  steal ! 

The  two  ghosts  sat  side  by  side  on  a  ledge  of 
rock  high  up  over  the  world.  A  great  tree  over- 
shadowed them,  and  it  was  very  cosy.  Looking 
down,  they  could  see  all  the  coloured  spring  :  farm- 
houses smothered  in  blossom,  ploughed  fields 
already  vivid  with  the  ascending  blade,  nooks  and 
corners  of  meadow  embroidered  with  flowers. 

"  It  looks  almost  as  if  it  might  be  the  spring," 
said  the  man,  sadly,  "  the  last  spring." 

"  The  last  ..."  queried  the  woman-ghost. 

"  I  mean  together,"  answered  the  man,  not  with 
entire  satisfaction  to  the  woman-ghost. 

Actually  the  man-ghost  had  made  beautiful 
arrangements  for  all  the  springs  that  remained  for 
him.  He  intended  to  spend  them  with  the  One 
Woman.  But  the  occasion  demanded  a  certain 
picturesque  pessimism,  and  he  lived  up  to  the 
occasion. 

"  I  think,"  presently  said  the  woman-ghost,  who 
loved  nothing  so  much  as  a  literary  allusion,  "  that 
Persephone  must  have  felt  as  I  do  now  when  she 


334 


Painted  Shadows 


arose  each  year  from  the  shades.  How  sweet  to 
breathe  again  the  smell  of  green  leaves  and  the 
newly  turned  mould  !  How  sweet  to  breathe  it 
with  you  ..." 

"  Properly  speaking,"  the  man-ghost  answered 
slyly,  "  you  ought  n't  to  be  breathing  it  with  me ; 
I  mean,  of  course,  in  your  character  as  Persephone. 
You  should  be  breathing  it  with  your  mother, 
Ceres  ..." 

"  I  love  you  even  more  than  my  mother,"  said 
the  woman-ghost,  smiling. 

"  Your  learned  allusion,"  said  the  man-ghost 
presently,  "  reminds  me  of  something  I  forgot  to 
say  the  other  day  when  we  opened  that  treasure- 
chest  together.  It  was  obvious  enough,  of  course, 
and  hardly  worth  mentioning.  Indeed,  I  'm  sure 
you  thought  of  it  yourself — thought,  I  mean, 
of  the  famous  box  of  Pandora  ..." 

"  Of  course  I  did  .  .  .  but  shall  I  tell  you  what 
I  chiefly  thought  of  ?  " 

"  Do." 

"  That,  after  all  the  superficial  trouble  occasioned 
by  the  opening  of  the  box,  after  all  the  various 
plagues  and  vexations  and  dilemmas  had  made 
their  escape,  there  was  still  Hope  lying  at  the 
bottom  of  the  box." 

In  reply  the  man-ghost  pressed  the  woman- 
ghost's  hand  and  looked  a  long  look  into  her  face, 


The  Two  Ghosts  335 

which  was  his  way  of  saying  everything,  yet  saying 
nothing ;  and  the  woman-ghost,  who,  it  must  have 
been  gathered,  was  no  fool,  was  far  from  being 
deceived  by  this  code  method  of  saying  nothing. 
She  began  to  understand. 

"  I  am  hungry,"  she  said  presently.  "  Suppose 
we  open  this  Pandora's  basket." 

They  had  brought  with  them  a  little  luncheon 
basket  packed  with  dainties,  and  they  laughingly 
unpacked  it  together. 

"  There  is,  you  see,  Hope  at  the  bottom  of  the 
box,"  said  the  man-ghost,  lifting  out  a  silver  flask 
of  considerable  dimensions,  which  the  woman-ghost 
had  given  him  as  a  birthday  present  three  years 
before.  "See  how  faithful  I  am  to  you  !  Wherever 
I  go,  this  goes  with  me." 

"  Faithful  creature,  indeed !  "  laughed  the 
woman-ghost.  "  I  am  so  glad  I  chose  some- 
thing useful." 

They  had  no  straws  with  them,  so  perforce  they 
drank  out  of  the  flask  together,  as  indeed  they  had 
drunk  three  years  before.  Then  they  turned  to 
the  various  dainties,  and  ate  heartily,  and  laughed 
together,  and  grew  happier  and  happier  each  hour. 

After  they  had  been  sitting  together  in  silence 
for  a  long  time,  the  woman-ghost  said  : 

"  Do  you  remember  the  Day  of  the  Mar- 
guerites?" 


2^6  Painted  Shadows 

That  day  the  man-ghost  did  in  very  truth  re- 
member. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  Day  of  the  Tower?" 

That  also  he  remembered. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  poem  you  wrote  me 
about  those  two  days?  " 

"  I  remember  that  I  wrote  a  poem,  but  I  cannot 
remember  the  poem." 

"  I  can,"  said  the  woman-ghost,  leaning  against 
his  shoulder.  "  Would  you  like  me  to  say  it  to 
you?" 

And  then  the  woman-ghost  recited  as  follows: 

"  Of  all  the  days,  we  said  that  day  was  good 

When,  'neath  the  blue  publicity  of  heaven, 
Amid  the  flickering  marguerites  we  stood, 

And  gave  —  or  thought  we  gave  —  what  once  is  given 
And  only  once  is  taken  quite  away ; 

But,  child,  since  then  how  rich  the  months  that  passed 
With  child-glad  hours  and  many  a  perfect  day. 

Nor  maybe  yet  the  happiest  or  the  last. 

"  Yet,  love,  I  wonder  if  the  day  we  went 

Up  that  high  tower,  and  stood  up  in  the  sky, 
Yet  unto  earth  returned  again,  was  meant 

To  symbolise  our  love  :   nay,  even  I, 
In  a  dim-lighted,  unbelieving  hour. 
Have  wondered  if  we  really  climbed  the  tower !  " 

"  You  were  right,"  she  added,  "  we  never  climbed 
the  tower  "  ;  and  after  a  pause  she  whispered :  "  Is 
it  yet  too  late?  " 


The  Two  Ghosts  -^37 

The  man-ghost  shook  his  head  sadly :  "  Who 
knows !  "  he  said. 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  said  the  woman-ghost, 
holding  him  more  tightly  in  her  arms. 

"  Time  will  show  us  what  to  do,"  answered  the 
man-ghost,  evasively. 

"  I  believe  in  that  no  longer,"  she  answered;  "  it 
is  for  us  to  tell  Time  what  to  do  ...  " 

"  It  will  all  come  right  ..."  said  the  man,  cheer- 
fully. 

"  I  have  ceased  to  believe  in  things  coming 
right,"  said  the  woman,  "  unless  we  make  them 
come  right  ..." 

At  that  moment  the  man-ghost,  noting  that  the 
sky  was  becoming  overshadowed  with  the  ap- 
proaching night,  involuntarily  took  out  his  watch. 
It  was  later  than  he  thought. 

"  My  dear !  "  he  said  thoughtlessly,  "  I  am 
sorry,  but  we  must  go  at  once,  or  we  shall  miss 
your  train." 

"  I  care  nothing  about  trains,  I  care  for  noth- 
ing," the  woman-ghost  answered.  "  I  love  you 
only.  I  would  rather  miss  my  train  than  catch 
it  ...  " 

For  answer  the  man-ghost  took  the  silver  flask 
by  the  bottom  and  held  it  with  the  neck  down- 
wards.    It  was  empty. 

"  Dear  little  ghost,"  he  said,  "  I  understand.    It 


22^  Painted  Shadows 


has  been  a  wonderful  spring  day.  The  spring  has 
turned  our  heads  —  but  it  must  n't  turn  our  hearts. 
You  must  catch  your  train." 

In  explanation  of  the  conclusion,  I  must  add 
that  a  ghost,  however  much  it  may  love  another 
ghost,  is  anxious  above  all  things  to  be  alive  again, 
alive  particularly  in  the  social  world.  This  it 
can  only  become  by  attaching  itself  to  some 
living  person,  who  will  give  it  a  simple  undi- 
vided love.  Now  both  these  ghosts  with  which 
this  story  has  dealt  alike  felt  the  need  of  such 
revivification.  The  man-ghost,  as  I  have  said, 
had  never  really  been  a  ghost,  for  all  the  time 
another  living  woman  had  been  feeding  him  with 
her  heart's  blood. 

That  was  why  the  woman-ghost,  when  she  first 
met  him  again,  took  him  for  a  Hving  man  —  and 
hoped  to  live  again  through  him.  And  a  living 
man  indeed  he  was,  for  everyone  else  but  her. 
For  her  only  he  was  still  a  ghost. 

Therefore,  when  she  came  to  think  over  it,  she 
was  thankful  that  he  had  made  her  catch  her 
train,  and  so  arrive  on  time  for  dinner  with  her 
betrothed. 

As  for  the  man-ghost,  he  went  back  to  the  liv- 
ing woman;  and  she  looked  up  at  him  and 
laughed : 


The  Two  Ghosts  339 

"Well,  how  about  the  great  anniversary?"  she 
asked. 

"We  are  finished,"  he  said,  laughing;  "we 
have  died  the  second  death.  The  ghosts  have 
laid  each  other." 


By  the  Author  of  "Painted  Shadows" 


THE  LOVE-LETTERS 
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SEVEN  EOOKHUNTERS 

OLD    CHELSEA    STATION,   BOX   22. 
NEW   YORK    CITY    (M)    N.  Y. 


